My Last Day on Planet Earth

by Kevin Owen

I thought I’d give Ulysses another shot. At least it would look good if they found it on my dead body. I’d have to break the spine and thumb a few pages, of course. I’d never got beyond page two and even then I kept having to track back. But I can’t even find it on my bookshelf. I hear the post arrive and there beneath the letterbox is the unmistakable shape of the Shed Monthly Catalogue and the promise of outbuilding bliss its glossy pages would bring. Orlando Bloom can do one. 

Everyone has a birthday but what we don’t realise is that we also have a death day. For me, it’s March 25th 2024. Today, actually. How do I know this you might ask? Well, I’ll tell you. I was at a party in Merthyr Tydfil. I don’t like going there‌. It’s a bit rough, isn’t it? And Merthyr, strange name, Welsh for Methadone, I think.

It was a Millennium New Year House Party. I’d gone with Trefor the Milk, but he was half asleep because he hadn’t been up so late since we had that Star Wars Video Night. It wasn’t a great party, to be honest, the beer was warm and there was no one to snog. The most exciting thing was seeing if the toaster would still work after midnight because all the talk was of the Millennium Bug. And then, after success with Warburtons Farmhouse, people started leaving.

But then these two girls arrived, Lynfa and Megan. I really fancied Lynfa but Megan would let you snog her once she finished her toast. I had to wait for blinkin’ ages. But, oh, it was worth it, those soft white Warburton lips. She tasted of love, romance and I can’t Believe it’s not Butter! I told her she was the most beautiful woman I had seen this century. That was a good line, wasn’t it? But she said that the new century would only start on January 1st 2001, and she knew this because it had come up on Who Wants to be a Millionaire. I said I knew that, though I didn’t, and I stood by my statement. She gave me a massive hug. I looked over her shoulder to see if Lynfa was impressed. She wasn’t.

It turned out that Lynfa had this gift. She could read minds and was a fortune teller. She was looking for volunteers to read and chose me. We sat across a table with the partygoers gathered around us. She held my hand and ran a finger across my palm. Oh, it was lovely, it was. She asked me to make my mind blank. That wasn’t difficult.

Then she started telling me all these things about myself that were true. My love of James Bond films, how Timothy Dalton was my favourite. How I cried buckets when Wales beat England at Twickers. How I’d lost my virginity in a Little Chef car park outside Abercynon with Karen the Clap. I must admit when someone as beautiful as Lynfa looks into your soul like that, I’ll be honest, I felt a connection. Then she said I would marry someone I’d not known long. My heart sang with joy.

That also turned out to be true, but let’s just say we got a lot of bread makers and toasters as wedding presents. Then Lynfa told me to look into her eyes and focus on my birthday. She got it! Spot on! The party makers gasped. It was a blinkin’ miracle. Then Trefor shouted, “What about his death day?” She shook her head. Her hair seemed to move in slow motion. It looked so soft and manageable, like a shampoo advert. She looked back into my eyes with this terrible sadness and said March 25th 2024. I laughed it off, everybody did, but you know, that kind of information is unforgettable really, isn’t it?.

So here I am, settled down now on my last day with a nice cup of tea and a bit of a problem. The thing is, I’ve already got two sheds and a very strict budget. But I love the glossy man-cave photos and a man can dream of socket sets.

Megan walks in.

“Oh! You’ve not got your nose buried in that shed nonsense again, have you?” she says, exasperated. “Why can’t you look at porn like normal husbands? Look, Lynfa and Trefor will be here soon for your Death Party.”

Then she sniffs the air violently with that upside-down smile that lets me know I am rumbled. “Have you even showered? I’ve told you before, using Tusk Body Spray is not a substitute for washing. It stinks. Now get up those blinkin’ stairs.”

When they do arrive Trefor hands me my copy of Ulysses. I’d forgotten I lent it to him years ago. The spine is broken and the pages are well-thumbed.

“Did you manage to finish it?” I ask, trying not to look impressed.

“Don’t be daft! It’s unreadable! But knowing you as I do, I thought you’d want it to look good over your dead body, for your Facebook Memorial Page. I’ll try not to get your Harry Potter collection in the background!”

They all chuckle.

“Have some respect for the dead,” I plead, and I laugh too. The thing is, I worked it out years ago when I saw Trefor had got off with Lynfa. He was, after all, a good-looking boy and what woman could resist his handsome face and discounts on semi-skimmed? Tref had fed Lynfa all those facts about me and plucked the death date out of thin air. But that Millenium night in Merthyr, four lives changed forever. My beautiful wife Megan, uncorks the Prosecco. I inhale deeply, proud, happy and content. She really is the love of my life.

“To death,” she says and we all raise our glasses. She is, after all, always in charge of the toast. 

Bio:
Kev is a hobbyist writer from Norfolk, UK.