It Was The Trumpets

It was the trumpets. Always the trumpets. That melancholic, drawn out theme tune, heralding the highlight of her week. Coronation Street was her only form of escapism. If he was out, we’d watch it with her. If he was in, we’d hide in our shared bedrooms, pretending to read, or feigning interest in something that wouldn’t arouse his temper. Not seen and not heard was always the best policy. Sometimes even that wasn’t safe.

Thirty odd years later, my partner is channel zapping and it catches me out again. That same brass dirge, this time in HD. The sound snares in my throat. A lump lodges against my trachea like a second Adam’s apple, choking me slightly. Killing me softly.

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I want to document my perfect life but I don't actually have one