Oh Harold

Harold stood hunched, a knife in his hand. A hosepipe was coiled at
his feet. He lifted the severed piece. It was of a length that would
stretch comfortably from the exhaust pipe to the interior of his
car.
"It's now or never," he groaned. Obsession being a strong point of his,
he'd played this scenario in his mind for what seemed an
eternity.

Sweat dripped unheeded from his forehead, stinging his eyes, making him
blink furiously. With oil-stained hands it would be just his luck to
blind himself rubbing them.

Pondering the months since his redundancy, the lack of money and his
low self-esteem deflated him. So much for last in first out. Fifteen
years of loyalty obviously meant precious little, when aggressive youth
rose above experience. One minute he was a valued member of staff,
consistently hardworking and reliable, the next, scanning situations
vacant for a job requiring obese, balding men, singularly skilled, of
senior age. Inevitably he'd failed in his quest.

Cheryl's assurance that they'd get by failed to disguise her
resentment. Being of the old school, his position as breadwinner was
further undermined by her offer to stack shelves at Sainsbury's.

Back to the job in hand, he vowed to succeed first time. If not,
chances were that he'd fester in intensive care. The prospect of
grapes, Lucozade and her superfluous pity was unnerving.

His preparations had been thorough, yet something aggravated him.
Perplexed, he scrutinised the hose. "What the hell did that have to do
with loose bearings and worn brake pads?" Hurtling his copy of 'Basic
Mechanics for Dummies' into oblivian, he stormed inside to phone the
mechanic as Cheryl had first suggested. "She's right again," he fumed,
but pride would never allow him to admit that to her, naturally.