“He’s bloody done it again!” shouted Alfred, clattering his way into Ethel’s kitchen laden with bags.
“Who dear?” replied Ethel, stood at the sink polishing last night’s drinking glasses with a soft cloth.
“Who? That Bisto character, of course. Right by the bloody paper shop – he’s written his name all over the post box.”
“Oh no, dear. What a beast.” replied Ethel, suppressing an urge to tease her husband of fifty years – she’d heard a lot about this Bisto individual since he began his campaign of graffiti around the village.
“Oh, I’m sorry love – I don’t mean to get worked up, but it’s the sheer bloody mentality of it I can’t get my head around. Why on earth would you see a perfectly good post box and go and write your name across it in felt tip? And why Bisto? That’s gravy, for crying out loud.”
Ethel smiled, it had been a while since she’d seen Alfred’s hackles raised in quite such an agitated manner.
“We’ll never win ‘Best Kept Village’ with this idiot writing his name all over it. Bloody kids.”
“Now, listen here Alfred Jones.” began Ethel, putting on her chiding voice, “This is a lovely village and no amount of Bisto will change that. Now, let me get you a barley sugar. Perhaps it will shut you up.”
Reaching into her cavernous bag, Ethel’s searched blindly for the boiled sweets. Fumbling around in the darkness her fingers found a long, cylindrical object – it was a thick black marker.
The truth was that Bisto had been Ethel’s handiwork all along, her arthritic hands lending the ‘Bisto’ tag its distinctive carved look. Ethel had always hated making gravy – it was terribly fiddly to prepare from scratch – so a reliable and tasty instant version had long been a godsend. It was all a bit of a giggle – life was for living, after all. And why should the young people have all the fun?