“So, you fired the aupair. The chores still have to be done. Have you unpacked the groceries”?” he murmurs, his head cocked to one side. He tuggs on his ear lobe, runs his tongue purposefully across his gleaming white teeth. His cashmere jumper skimming the manly form of his chest.
No, I mumble. My cheeks flush pink with embarrassment, I keep my eyes fixed, firmly on the floor, by now many years practiced as an expert at the required submissive, trophy wife pose. That minx had to go. How dare she unpack the dishwasher in a silver lame bikini. Those breasts had to have been implants. I note he is leaving the room as I see the legs of his soft, over washed jeans and bare feet plodding to the corridor outside and out, on to the kitchen beyond. I bite my lip as I wait for the realisation I have been dreading…there will be consequences…My heart sinks in my chest. Why have I been so brave as to cross him?
I listen intently and begin to sense a mild thrill of anticipation as he begins to roughly unpack the Ocado delivery “Where is the damn house keeper?” he murmurs; 4 rolls of cellotape, a large roll of clingfilm, a half kilo of organic, salted butter. His long fingered hands are, by now, probing the soft fruit, the seasonal produce, exploring every orifice of the capacious recycled plastic delivery bags until the harsh realisation strikes… no Battenberg!
He cocks his head to one side. “You know you will be punished”, he murmurs, “I must have my little indulgences” taking my Isabella Oliver 365 catalogue and tossing it into the recycling as he abruptly enters the room again, this time swiftly from behind, making me shudder. “I am inviting my mother to stay during half term. You have yourself to blame, at least she knows how to stock the larder” (tapping purposefully on his iPhone 4S). I stroke my bottom lip.
Damn him and his compulsive addiction to mass produced cakes and confectionary. Curses to him and his insatiable appetite and the love of his mother.
He marches across the playroom in bare feet, piercing the atmosphere with his thunderous facial expression and treading heavily on a Lego piece, giving himself a nasty stone bruise in the process. Thrusting forward, he collapses roughly onto the bench and sensing my chance, I spring into action with all of the skill of a desert cat, quickly securing his hands and feet with an old school tie and one of my son’s stray rugby socks.
As I purposefully set to work, he is initially dazed but soon senses my displeasure, anticipating what is to come, he bites his lip and murmurs: “Spare me babe, I can’t take it. You know how I love marzipan. So, I get a little out of hand…”, by now well aware that he is at my mercy. The pain is surely indescribable – physical,metaphysical, mathematical, financially., seeping into the very marrow of his high cheek bones.
“Our family is complete” I murmur, “and now that the poppets are off to Boarding school, I will show you the true meaning of the term playroom when my new walk in wardrobe is fitted, you condescending, lardy puff!” Albina is suddenly beside me as she heaves the full weight of her androgynous, hirsute body onto his. There is no escape as he is entombed in her hulking muscular grip. He shudders, panting, feeling her weight suppressing him. There is no escape.
Quick as a flash, I am off across the South Circular in the gleaming Audi, my fabulous glossy hair bouncing about in the sunshine, his Black Amex taking pride of place on the passenger seat. Now he will pay… “Gosh but Rossanno Ferretti is the most amazing hair spa, it’s time to indulge my inner goddess in the manly hands of Jack Howard – Balayage expert and colourist to the stars! Because everyone knows, great hair is better than sex!”
I would be delighted to suggest a suitable route for the Olympic Torch. In fact, someone just did, on Tessa Jowel’s Facebook page. Isn’t social media a hoot!
Ah yes! The NHS and our entire infrastructure is about to be privatised, education is about to become the domain of the rich (smug face) again, and we are supposed to give a rat’s corpse about lots of drug infused muscle bound half wits chasing eachother about and throwing pointy implements in a field.
Lets spend stacks of cash on bunting! Clearly!
When I first came to live in London, I contacted an uncle, a long lost younger brother of my father, who had not been in contact with our family for over a decade. It seemed safer to come to stay with him in this big city than to live in halls – I am sure you would have agreed at the time, it seemed infinitely sensible.
My father had passed away before I reached my teens, I was curious to meet this glamorous young uncle, to see if he looked like my father. Tim seemed full of fun; he had a voluptuous wife, two little children and an enormous dog. Soon after I arrived, the dog got sick. Tim cried great wet tears and carried the dog to the vet in his arms. I was touched.
Tim returned from the vet in an extreme state of distress. Prince was very sick indeed. The vet wanted to “put my Princey to sleep”. Tim fled from the vet’s office to seek calm and consolation at his home in the arms of his wife.
After a short while, the vet telephoned to seek permission to euthanize the beloved pet. Initially, Tim sobbed, “Everything is to be done to keep Princey alive”, then – shrieking “Exorbitant! Are you sure?” to “How much will it cost to put the dog down”, and eventually “What’s to stop me killing the mutt myself?”
I remember clearly, the woman who was married to Tim at the time, relating to me, how very sensitive Uncle Tim was – she claimed he had taken the entire day off work when my father died. “He phoned in sick and lay on the kitchen floor. Right there, on the tumbled marble tiles, in front of the Miele dishwasher – to the left of the waste disposal unit and he cried like a baby all day… I will never forget it. That was the day I went into labour with our son Clint. E’s so very sensitive, my Timmy,” she added, in her irritating nasal whine.
“When Elvis died, the following year, he was confined to his bed for a week! Oh yes, I was carrying our daughter at the time, he insisted we named her Priscilla!”
Why am I telling you this?
Apparently Kate Middleton’s cousin is rather a character…
We don’t get to choose our relatives sweetie.
We need to make this world a better place.
We need to tell everyone about JOSEPH KONY.
MAKE JOSEPH KONY FAMOUS.
GO GET HIM NOW!
The children at my daughter’s school are so very clever (grinds teeth). It seems like only yesterday that my baby girl bounced in the front door and announced that she had won the annual school poetry competition…
Oh yes, after that we had weeks of stress (dabs tear from eye).
The poppet claimed to have been shocked to have won the contest, amazed as she had no recollection of entering at all. She was, she claimed, entirely unfamiliar with the rhyme submitted in her name (looks guiltily at husband)… For weeks she threatened to expose us, right up until parents evening when she recited the ode for the damn governors. James feared he had developed a gastric ulcer! Freya was the lucky owner of a new iPad (grinds teeth).
Today as I stood at the school gates, next to a perfect mummy who I know so well. Her darling bounced out of the school gates and announced: “Mummy, I appear to have won the school poetry competition!”
“Good for you sweetie” chirped her mother, kissing the poppet heartily on the cheek. “But mummy, I haven’t seen that poem before”… OHMYGOD!
Nothing is new (smirk). These poppets are clever enough to extort money from their parents but not clever enough to write their own damn sonnets (shakes fist at sky). Bill Gates is laughing at us from the heavens.
My darling poppet, Freya, tripped out from school on Friday, deep in conversation with a dimpled, pint sized chum;
“I feel it is unfair that Olympia has clearly stolen her poem for the poetry competition from a book.”
“I believe the practice is referred to as plagiarism” added Iris, very seriously (I should speak to her mother, she is developing a frown line).
“It is supposed to be original work, that is the entire point of the competition!” asserted Freya. “That rhyme is far too good for an eight year old girl to have written. It makes a mockery of the entire contest, it is not an even playing field”, her little face going red and her voice slightly raised (I can see a career as an international human rights lawyer within reach!).
“Exactly my point” cried Iris. “Why can’t Olympia have her father write the poem like everyone else”…
NOTE TO SELF: Speak to James – URGENTLY! If my poppet is to succeed in life, she needs to get a taste for winning from her early years. Freya may never achieve a thing in life if we don’t take drastic action (dabs tear from eye)! James will have to personally complete her homework for the foreseeable future, clearly!
It is the age we live in sweeties (dabs tear from eye)…
Apparently all of this social media is terribly now and down with the kids!
“Before you diagnose yourself with depression or low self esteem, first make sure that you are not, in fact, just surrounding yourself with assholes.”
At the school gates this morning, I bumped into a sobbing Imogen, who admitted that she thinks she has developed Tourettes!
“You don’t have Tourettes darling” I reasoned. “You have children!”
“If having children makes women swear, why do you always seem so serene?” she blubbed.
“Because I have help,” I replied.
Pass the corkscrew…