AMBROSIAL EXPECTATIONS Vs. ACERBIC REALITY by Linda Hibbin

In her mock Tudor abode, surrounded by fake antique elegance, Lady Jones-Whambottom entertained her cronies, their conversation rich with innuendo and rumour.

Twelve-year-old Angela-Jane sat beside her aunt. To be seen, not heard.

Scarborough, an overweight Bulldog, dozed on the chaise lounge.

By chance, the long-suffering Omniscience and His/Her adversary, at that moment, ejected two souls that failed to live up to expectations and planted them in the minds of the dog and child. Their bewildered earth-bound spirits were left to float in Limbo. A temporary arrangement until the outcasts’ behaviour improved.

The dog jerked awake. ‘What the Dickens?’ whimpered Scar. His boss regarded him as a waste of space, frightened of his shadow. Sent him here to ‘man up.’

‘Bloody Hell,’ Angie muttered. She’d dropped from a great height due to her potty mouth, incessant partying, and refusal to join the Celestial Chorus.

‘Angela-Jane,’ piped up her hoity-toity Aunt. ‘Fetch the cake. Go, go,’ she ordered when her niece didn’t appear to hear.

‘That’s you,’ Scar prompted and scurried after Angie, who skipped along the corridor, arms stretched like the Angel of the North, knocking askew second-rate prints of the old masters while singing profanities to the tune of Abide with Me.

Instinct guided the dog like a divining rod to the kitchen, a disappointing sterile stainless steel and laminate workplace.

‘Ah, dar-lings,’ sang the Chef de Cuisine. He theatrically presented his pièce de résistance. The Cake. A distressing symphony of unharmonious colour.

‘Ugh, manky,’ Angie uttered.

‘Yum,’ Scar crooned.

Alternate layers of brown and beige sponginess were plastered together with Barbie-pink icing. Garish piped icing snaked randomly across the surface of blue sludge, dribbling over the edge creating glutenous strands resembling the Bulldog’s slobber.

‘Jesus wept,’ Angie murmured.

Scar perked up. ‘Is it the Devil’s food cake?’

Angie rolled her eyes. ‘Well, it’s hardly a soddin’ Angel cake.’

Scar wondered if Angie was beyond redemption.

Shocked, Chef de Cuisine gasped. ‘What’s got into you today?’

‘You’d be surprised,’ Scar muttered and fearfully backed from the room as Chef shoved the abomination towards Angie, snarling, ‘Drop this, and there’ll be the Devil to pay.’

‘Can’t I use that?’ Angie asked, nodding towards a tea trolley.

‘Wheel’s broke,’ and Chef abruptly turned his back.

‘Ah, speak of the Devil,’ Lady Jones-Whambottom chortled, ‘here she is.’ Then, clapping her hands, she shrilled, ‘Spectacular.’

A spectacle indeed, thought the powers-that-be watching through ethereal veils separating their kingdoms.

‘Want to swap?’ Malignant-Genius asked craftily.

‘Anything for a quiet eternity,’ Infinitely-Merciful replied.

As the dysfunctional souls were extracted, Angela-Jane felt lightheaded and tripped. Inexplicably, she cried, ‘****,’ as the cake took flight, disintegrating as it skidded across the table into the ladies’ laps and then splattering to the floor like fresh cowpats.

All hell broke loose. The guests howled like banshees, the hostess wept, and Scarborough tucked into the mess on the floor.

‘Don’t be a stranger,’ Divine-Light, the perfect host, said. ‘Come and visit sometime.’

Smoldering-Darkness farted.

Linda, an artist, began writing during the pandemic. In her ‘golden years’ she enjoys painting pictures with words, creating imaginary worlds and colourful characters. Her work has been published internationally and recently won 1st prize in UK competitions, PenToPrint and Worcester LitFest.

Photo Sleepy bulldog by Joyell VanGelder on flickr

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