BOTTLES

BOTTLES

Vinnie began collecting glass marbles when she was small, loving the way they changed the sunlight.

When she started earning pocket money she progressed to old medicine bottles, and by the time she met Dean she had hundreds.

‘Stupid’ he called them when he was sober – when he was drunk he simply broke them, often on Vinnie’s head.

She began seeking out the murky ones in flea-markets, washing them out meticulously when she got them home.

When Dean died in agony, forensics couldn’t isolate what had killed him from the cocktail of ancient poisons in his system.

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This story is an old one, with a very loose connection to the image Rochelle posted this week, but I'm being lazy today. Last night I had my lovely granddaughter for a sleepover and was up early to get her to school for their last day before the holiday. A whole day with games instead of lessons - she couldn't miss that!

Rochelle's photo of the inside of an Irish pub, whether actually in Ireland or in one of the many other countries that boast 'Real Irish Pubs', is particularly apposite today as it is my Irish son-in-law's birthday. They live in Co. Fermanagh. NI, and will probably celebrate by walking their dogs in some Real Irish Rain! Happy birthday, Alan X