CHAINSAW

Sundays were a real drag.

Robbie Moffat grumbled and swore to himself as he drove the seven miles up to the plantation. He was a lumberjack by trade, but nobody called it that these days. ‘On the trees’ was the local description. ‘Good money to be made on the trees’ he’d been told. Yeah, right.

Robbie hated the trees. He hated driving up to the ever expanding clearings in his native Northumberland. He hated the sound of the chainsaws, hated especially the physical labour involved. Most people seemed to think that it was easy felling a tree using a chainsaw, but this opinion was always offered by some limp-dick who’d never handled more than a Black and Decker hedge trimmer.

His head was throbbing without mercy, the previous nights drinking now taking its toll on his system. Each shudder of the aging VW Jetta sent knives of retribution from the base of his skull to the back of his red tinged eyes.

Robbie thought about turning the car around and heading home.

He was about two miles from the clearing and had just turned off the A road onto the gravel track that lead into the wooded hills. He debated with himself as he drove but knew he’d find no peace at home either.

His mother whined and twisted constantly, every minute he was in her presence. ‘Robbie, stay away from those schoolgirls!’-‘Robbie don’t drink and drive!’-‘Robbie don’t waste your money on the horses!’ nag, nag, fucking nag!

At least in the woods he didn’t have to put up with her crap.

Every thing he did was wrong. So the little slag he’d knocked up was barely sixteen, so what? -she’d been gagging for it.
And it was her own fault if she wasn’t on the pill!
If she came on him for maintenance he’d just get himself sacked off the job and claim dole. Every body else did it so why not him, eh?

His head and stomach were reeling as he drove into the clearing. He’d have a cup of coffee in the works Portacabin before he started work - maybe that would square him up.

As he pulled level with the hut, he threw open the car door and was sick onto the gravel path below. “Fuckin’ Indians have poisoned me!” he swore “Their curry’s crap anyway- not going back there again. The Pride of Bengal –my arse!”

After two cups of instant coffee, Robbie Moffat collected his chainsaw and gloves from the boot of his rust spotted car. He made his way into the woods.

Deep inside himself, Robbie knew that if he hadn’t messed around so much on Friday, he wouldn’t have needed to come back today to fulfil his basic quota.

He’d been feeling a little distracted, so he’d spent much of the afternoon sat in his car with an old copy of Razzler magazine for company.

Damned if his boss hadn’t nearly caught him midway into the readers’ wives section, chubby in hand!

So back on Sunday it was!

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