Four Wheeled Shelter

Told you we would see him again... Rupert returns !... to do nothing, as usual...


Rupert Rutherford (the third) was at the wheel of his pristine Ford Capri, like every morning, at 8.12am. And, as usual, like the traffic surrounding him, he was going nowhere fast. Birthday or not, the M4 was as grey and sluggish as it has ever been. But Rupert didn't mind. There's not much that Rupert minded.
He was comfortable, warm and dry, and breathing in the faintest pine wood smell of a very sober looking air-freshener. Rupert didn't really love this car – he wasn't exactly of the petrol-head type – but he had a strong sense of gratefulness towards it. It was, in a way, his sanctuary. He always felt secure in this beige interior... and he secretly liked the almost corduroy fabric of the seats.
He had bought the Ford second hand, a couple of years ago, and had been relatively proud about it – unlike his wife, Bernadette, who positively hated the car – not so much because it was a bargain, it wasn't, but it had been very clean... and still was.
In the background, Radio 4 was playing, on the verge of human perception, some inane babbling on subjects that were of no interest to Rupert.

Insignificant Morning Ritual

Let me introduce you to Mr. Rupert Ruthford III. You will probably meet him again.

Rupert's day started like any other day.
After cooking their breakfast and sending the children on their way to school, he was standing in the kitchen, busy preparing his pack lunch before leaving for work. One sandwich – brown bread, two slices, margarine on one, mayonnaise light on the other, ham, one slice, lettuce, two leaves – and one apple, peeled and pre-cut in quarters, as usual. In the process, he was sipping, absent-mindedly, his weak white decaffeinate coffee with, as it was his birthday, one sugar, lost in no particular thoughts.
His wife, Bernadette – who's parents wanted a boy and weren't far off the mark – was still upstairs, having a lay-in, like every Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday. On Sunday, she would generally indulge in a longer one, followed by a nap.
Today, she would eventually rise and carry on with her mysterious daily routine. Rupert never dwelled upon what she could fill her time with... Rupert never dwelled upon much.