An Eamonn Shute Short Story
Copyright Tony McFadden 2011
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Early, for Eamonn, was anything before 10:00 a.m. The 8:00 a.m. phone call that woke him, therefore, was not particularly appreciated.
“Shite!” He rolled over and picked up his mobile phone, squinting at the screen. “Bloody private number my arse.” He flipped the phone onto the floor and attempted to rejoin his dreams. Sweet, sweet dreams.