Maggie's Mind

The vicar rolled his eyes every time Maggie opened her mouth. She spoke her mind for better and for worse. Her sharp tongue and lack of political correctness made her an icon in the village. Because deep down, everyone knew she was a lovely lady in small doses.

The vicar had invited Issac Canterbury for a cup of tea. He didn't seem himself with his ragged hair and unkept beard - a far cry from the schoolboy choir singer he used to be. Maggie was there cleaning the house and popping the kettle on. She didn't have to, of course, but she insisted.

"You know you're always welcome anytime," Maggie told Issac as if she owned the house.

"Thank you, Mrs Bletch."

As soon as Issac left, Maggie heaved a sigh of relief. She grabbed the closest air freshener and sprayed it on her apron and the vicar's sofa. "Now that's better."

"Maggie, you've already used up two of my air fresheners this week."

"I can smell the crust from his arsehole!"

"Come on, Maggie. You know he's not been very well."

"I gaurentee has has a smeggy dick!"

"Now what's a good British lass like you, doing sprouting foul language like that?"

"It's the truth! He needs a bloody good scrub and a haircut. He looks like a nonce."

"Now, now, Maggie. Issac made a lovely speech about spreading kindness on Sunday. The whole church applauded."

Maggie laughed. "Where was his kindness when he knocked up the prostitute whilst banging his neighbour's back door!"

"Enough!" the vicar begged. "He's had a hard time. I'm sure when he's back on his feet, the choir will be back to its former glory."

Maggie crossed her arms. "Ha! More like he'll be on that ticky-tocky-twat app rapping about the red light district."