Monday, 25th March 2013, 11:04am
Alfie looked up at the woman. She seemed exactly like the person who wasn’t fond of kittens. Her pince-nez glasses hung over the edge of her hooked nose, ready to fall off at any given second; she wore far too much make-up; her hair was pulled back into a tight bun and a mole sat on her cheek with a singular hair protruding from it. She seemed like exactly the kind of person who you wouldn’t want to judge whether you were fit to adopt kids. However, unfortunately, that is exactly what she was.
He read her name badge. Mrs. Lorington. He liked to imagine her first name was something like Deardre or Champagne or something ridiculous and very old-fashioned. He didn’t understand why she was even necessary in this equation. Surely, deciding whether or not Mr. and Mrs. Chandra were suitable adopting parents was down to him, not to some boring old fart who probably spent her spare time reading Geoffrey Chaucer and bird watching. He had met Gita enough times to know she was a strange, strange person but very much a suitable adoptive mother, and Haresh, as well - he was a bit more serious but he knew how to take a joke and he could cook ridiculously well. Alfie had never tasted anything as perfect as his Chicken Mikka Tasala and he doubted he ever would again. He looked over at Mrs. Lorington who was almost stamping her foot, having been waiting on the doorstep for a good five minutes now. Perhaps, he thought, he would never have the opportunity of tasting it again - that is if this day didn’t go too well.
Mrs. Lorington extended her neck in an alarming manner to lean over the adjacent hedge and peer through the front window. She muttered something under her breath and tended to her clipboard, writing something down in ridiculously neat cursive. She turned to Alfie.
“It seems Mr and Mrs Chandra don’t care enough about you to stay in for the day. Come on, boy.” She strutted off the doorstep and back towards her Mercedes, parked meticulously well on the pavement.
“C’mon Gita,” Alfie muttered, “Where are you?”
Alfie looked up at the woman. She seemed exactly like the person who wasn’t fond of kittens. Her pince-nez glasses hung over the edge of her hooked nose, ready to fall off at any given second; she wore far too much make-up; her hair was pulled back into a tight bun and a mole sat on her cheek with a singular hair protruding from it. She seemed like exactly the kind of person who you wouldn’t want to judge whether you were fit to adopt kids. However, unfortunately, that is exactly what she was.
He read her name badge. Mrs. Lorington. He liked to imagine her first name was something like Deardre or Champagne or something ridiculous and very old-fashioned. He didn’t understand why she was even necessary in this equation. Surely, deciding whether or not Mr. and Mrs. Chandra were suitable adopting parents was down to him, not to some boring old fart who probably spent her spare time reading Geoffrey Chaucer and bird watching. He had met Gita enough times to know she was a strange, strange person but very much a suitable adoptive mother, and Haresh, as well - he was a bit more serious but he knew how to take a joke and he could cook ridiculously well. Alfie had never tasted anything as perfect as his Chicken Mikka Tasala and he doubted he ever would again. He looked over at Mrs. Lorington who was almost stamping her foot, having been waiting on the doorstep for a good five minutes now. Perhaps, he thought, he would never have the opportunity of tasting it again - that is if this day didn’t go too well.
Mrs. Lorington extended her neck in an alarming manner to lean over the adjacent hedge and peer through the front window. She muttered something under her breath and tended to her clipboard, writing something down in ridiculously neat cursive. She turned to Alfie.
“It seems Mr and Mrs Chandra don’t care enough about you to stay in for the day. Come on, boy.” She strutted off the doorstep and back towards her Mercedes, parked meticulously well on the pavement.
“C’mon Gita,” Alfie muttered, “Where are you?”