Henry was too quick. Always in a rush. See the world, why not? But we saw nothing. A blur. I sneezed and missed Luxembourg, ha, ha. But then, he always was. Forty years of marriage, no time to myself, no room. Till now, that is. A space of my own – well, almost. Not as comfy as that suite in… Bruges, was it? Somewhere pretty, anyway. Henry on the balcony, beaming. ‘Oh, do cheer up, Rosemary, come on! England next!’ Did he have time to understand my reply? Probably not. Too quick, wasn’t I? ‘Not England, Henry. The sidewalk.’ Ha, ha.
In response to thebookblogger2014’s Flash Fiction Foray, with the prompt, Come on, England, by the Barmy Army in celebration of England winning the ashes (Late again – sorry, Matt!)