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It was Adam and Georgia’s first date. They’d chosen a cosy little Italian in the exclusive district of Kensington, London. They’d cracked a joke about oysters, Adam had done his spiel about being different to all the other guys, Georgia had made it clear that she wasn’t the kind of girl that slept with men on the first date but had trimmed down below just in case, they’d shared a slightly cold garlic baguette. Now it was time to get down to the nitty-gritty.

“Can we have the bill, please?” Adam asked the waiter, leaning back confidently in his chair.

Georgia smiled coquettishly, fingers stroking the flute of her wine glass. “I’ve had a great time, thank you.”

Their eyes met briefly over the flickering candlelight.

The waiter appeared between them both, coughing politely. “The bill.” He cleared a space between them, clutching the paper in his slender, tanned hands.

Adam and Georgia both paused momentarily.

The waiter nodded knowingly. He’d seen this scene play out more times than he could count.

Placing the bill flat against the table with his right hand, he felt under the table with his left – hesitating when he felt the lever. With one firm twist of his fingers, he yanked the lever down.

The table creaked and shuddered before the centre rose majestically to reveal a glass case of weapons.

Probably should have mentioned this earlier, but it is now the year 3067. Men and women fight to the death for the bill, for their honour, for the love of their countrymen.

As trumpets sounded and diners pushed their chairs back in anticipation, Adam and Georgia lunged forward and grabbed their respective weapons. Adam went for a sword, whilst Georgia rather twistedly selected a flail.

After a gruesome seven-hour battle it was pronounced a draw and they coughed up £46.80 each, including a tip.

Adam and Georgia now live in Surrey with their four children and a Labrador Border Collie cross named Oscar. They laugh about their first date now. Oh, how they laugh.

THE END

 

 

 

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When Julian’s tomato plant told him that his wife was having an affair, it was a bit of a surprise.

For a start, they’d just been on a glorious cruise to the Mediterranean, where they’d spent two weeks eating shrimp and making frantic love to the sound of the ocean. They’d met a cracking couple from Ashton-Under-Lyne – Peter and Sue they were called, proper smashing pair – and exchanged email addresses. They were planning to meet up at the Cheshire Oaks Retail Outlet not this Saturday but the one after. Everything was sorted. The revelation couldn’t have come at a worse time.

“I’ve seen them,” the tomato plant leered down Julian’s neck. “You know. At it. Doing sex stuff.”

“No, no, no,” Julian said, shaking his head. “Alison’s been distant recently but she’s just stressed out with work.”

“Why would I lie, Julian?” the tomato plant said smugly. “Ask yourself that.” Then it kind of retreated silently on itself back into the wall so it got the last word.

*

Later that evening, as Alison lovingly served out hand-made steak and kidney pie at the dining table, Julian took a long, hard stare at her.

Her temples had begun to grey, her hips a little wider than when they had married, but she was still a solid 7.5 out of 10 and he reckoned most of the guys at their book club would definitely give her one.

Alison had been a loyal wife for 28 years. She had made his breakfast every morning. She had put her career on hold to raise their four wonderful children – three of whom had gone to red brick universities, plus one who had recently dyed their hair purple, pierced their lip and was squawking about becoming an artist like an angry, spoiled grape. Alison had ironed his shirts and trousers, renewed the insurance on their shared Vauxhall Astra, and lied in court when he failed to correctly disclose his income for tax purposes.

But as much as he didn’t want to believe the tomato plant, the seed of doubt had been firmly planted in his mind.

“What are you gawping at?” Alison said, settling into the chair across from him. “You’re giving me the creeps.”

“How did you get those scratches, Alison?” Julian nodded at her arms. “They look nasty.”

“Rooting up the sugar snap peas,” Alison said casually. “Almost did my back in.”

“I bet you did,” Julian whispered tearfully. “I bet you did.”

*

The next day, when Alison had nipped to the post office, Julian went back into the greenhouse.

“Right, you,” he said, squaring up to the tomato plant. “Tell me what’s going on, right now. No details spared.”

“As you wish,” the tomato plant said.

*

Thus it transpired that Alison was knobbing one of their neighbours. Julian kicked her out of the house and then ate the tomato plant.

THE END