Quintumply

‘Well, fine then!’  Roared Mr. Frankland, in a state of angry give-upperance, ‘I don’t need you, I don’t need anyone!  In fact, you can keep this godforsaken trifle.  Nobody eats trifle these days, anyway!’

And it was with this sentence uttered that the miffed gentleman thrust the layered dessert into and onto Christie’s alarmingly small face.  In return, the now quite messy woman offered a choked and horrified yelp as a rebuttal.  This did not have the desired effect, however, and Mr. Frankland walked, unphased and still mad as a badger, in the direction that led him away from Christie’s house.

Panting from the shock and wondering what on Earth had provoked such a reaction to her kindly trifle-shaped gift, Christie fell back into her least favourite armchair and wiped the custard from her eyelids.  Once her vision and sense of direction were back to the required level of quality for normal human behaviour, she realised her mistake of sitting in her least favourite chair, and moved to her favourite.  It was chocolate brown, and had a mayonnaise-related stain on the back cushion.

Mr. Frankland’s walk home was short, as he stopped walking when he got inside his car.  The drive home would be much longer, both in terms of distance and of time.  So much so, in fact, that the Sun would rise as he neared his destination, and it was roughly half past one in the morning.  His watch was not at all visible in the dark, and he did not think to switch his car’s internal light on to check properly, nor did he much care.  The words of Christie were still circling his grey matter at a speed and ferocity normally associated with Cheetahs, or sports cars.  ’NnnneeeeeeeeeeeeOOOOOOoowwwwwwwwwww,’ She had said, repeatedly, over dinner.  This, in addition to other engine sound effects – such as ‘VROOOM!’ and the incomprehensible sound that replicates tyre-screeching – had gotten on Mr. Frankland’s nerves, and his tendons too.  There was never a moment in history that he was known for his peaceful demeanor, and took Christie’s peculiar behaviour to be an insult to his sex drive.

‘Bah,’ Huffed Frankland, ‘Trifle.  Trifle indeed.  Hmph.  Pssh.  Phuff.’  Similar grunts and sighs sprouted from his tongue-box for many an hour during his journey home.  He suddenly stopped at approximately six minutes to five and turned the radio on.  It spaketh, ‘…just four crates left in their outhouse.  Thus ends our news broadcast. I’ve been, and continue to be, Judy Cachemeer.  Back to you, Greg…. Thank you Judy, spiffing news as always.  Now, on to the main event of the morning, the fourteenth cro-’

But Greg was cut short.  Mr. Frankland turned off the radio because it was distracting him from his irritated grunts and huffles.  And grunt and huffle he did, all the way home, into the sunrise.