wait.’
Of such incidents are armed serial killers made. I give up, I really do.
SATURDAY, 5 JUNE
Sam arrives for the weekend, and brings a new girlfriend with him. He says that he met her via Guardian Soulmates and that he wants her to meet Max and me so that she can see that he does know ‘ some married people’. She’s six feet tall, wears trainers and says nothing. Really. Nothing .
After dinner, Sam suggests that we all go to the pub for a drink, but I can’t face it – the idea of spending the whole evening with a woman who’s taken a vow of silence is far too much for me, so I claim that I have an urgent report to write for work and send Max off to entertain the lovers by himself.
He’s much more tolerant than me, anyway, as well as being far closer to the girlfriend’s height. I already have a crick in my neck.
As soon as they shut the front door behind them, I curl up in front of the television with the bottle of wine left over from dinner, on the basis that alcohol is a muscle-relaxant.
After one glass, I fall asleep in a neck-paralysing position on the couch, only waking when Max, Sam and the Tall Enigma come in and catch me drooling all down the front of my TV-watching fleece.
They’re all roaring drunk, and the lovers are eager to get to bed – so I wait until they’ve gone upstairs, then ask Max, ‘How did it go?’
‘Never been so bored in my life,’ he says.
‘Did she speak at all?’ I say. They’ve been gone for four hours, after all …
‘Well, she told a few rude jokes, and then they spent the rest of the night talking about rugby. It was like a night out with your dad,’ says Max.
‘Oh God, that’s it!’ I say. It’s all become crystal clear to me now, if not to Max.
‘What’s it?’ he says or, rather, ‘Whasht-it?’
‘What Sam sees in her,’ I say. ‘She shares his interests .’
‘Too true,’ Max says, then passes out attractively on the couch.
I wait until he starts drooling, then cover him with a blanket and go to bed. At least our house is going to bear witness to some sex tonight, I suppose – though I hope the Tall Enigma doesn’t bring any rugby moves into the bedroom. That spare bed has a wobbly headboard.
SUNDAY, 6 JUNE
My toes have suddenly gone all funny, like my mother’s: white, wrinkly slugs attached to my feet. Repulsive . I had no idea that was due to age but, now that I know that slug toes aren’t just a peculiarity specific to Mum, I suppose sandal-wearing’s well and truly out of the window.
Is there no end to the parts of your body you have to keep covered, once you pass a certain birthday? Whole chunks of your anatomy consigned to obscurity overnight: the tops of your arms, any leg above the knee – not to mention the baggy knees themselves. And the same goes for wrinkly necks, ageing hands and, now, for bloody toes as well.
I might as well become a Muslim and wear a burka. At least that would cover everything in one fell swoop, whereas, if you used all the cover-ups the magazines suggest, you’d look a right twit: gloves; an artfully draped scarf or a huge necklace; a long skirt (with opaque tights), and long-sleeved tops, segueing neatly into the aforementioned gloves. Soon I’ll need a hat to obscure the bald patch, or a balaclava to cover the incipient beard.
And wearing trousers will be out, too: as Mum says that, one day when you’re least expecting it, your arse suddenly slips sideways and becomes flat and wide, just like that. Talk about something to look forward to.
God knows what Johnny would think if he ever laid eyes on me – which is all the more bothersome a thought since he started emailing me so much more often. He says talking to me ‘puts a smile on his face’ and that even his staff have commented on his change of mood. I suppose anyone working for an oil company would be glad of a distraction from the horror of the Deepwater blowout fn4 at the moment – but it’s flattering, all the same.
I do
Of such incidents are armed serial killers made. I give up, I really do.
SATURDAY, 5 JUNE
Sam arrives for the weekend, and brings a new girlfriend with him. He says that he met her via Guardian Soulmates and that he wants her to meet Max and me so that she can see that he does know ‘ some married people’. She’s six feet tall, wears trainers and says nothing. Really. Nothing .
After dinner, Sam suggests that we all go to the pub for a drink, but I can’t face it – the idea of spending the whole evening with a woman who’s taken a vow of silence is far too much for me, so I claim that I have an urgent report to write for work and send Max off to entertain the lovers by himself.
He’s much more tolerant than me, anyway, as well as being far closer to the girlfriend’s height. I already have a crick in my neck.
As soon as they shut the front door behind them, I curl up in front of the television with the bottle of wine left over from dinner, on the basis that alcohol is a muscle-relaxant.
After one glass, I fall asleep in a neck-paralysing position on the couch, only waking when Max, Sam and the Tall Enigma come in and catch me drooling all down the front of my TV-watching fleece.
They’re all roaring drunk, and the lovers are eager to get to bed – so I wait until they’ve gone upstairs, then ask Max, ‘How did it go?’
‘Never been so bored in my life,’ he says.
‘Did she speak at all?’ I say. They’ve been gone for four hours, after all …
‘Well, she told a few rude jokes, and then they spent the rest of the night talking about rugby. It was like a night out with your dad,’ says Max.
‘Oh God, that’s it!’ I say. It’s all become crystal clear to me now, if not to Max.
‘What’s it?’ he says or, rather, ‘Whasht-it?’
‘What Sam sees in her,’ I say. ‘She shares his interests .’
‘Too true,’ Max says, then passes out attractively on the couch.
I wait until he starts drooling, then cover him with a blanket and go to bed. At least our house is going to bear witness to some sex tonight, I suppose – though I hope the Tall Enigma doesn’t bring any rugby moves into the bedroom. That spare bed has a wobbly headboard.
SUNDAY, 6 JUNE
My toes have suddenly gone all funny, like my mother’s: white, wrinkly slugs attached to my feet. Repulsive . I had no idea that was due to age but, now that I know that slug toes aren’t just a peculiarity specific to Mum, I suppose sandal-wearing’s well and truly out of the window.
Is there no end to the parts of your body you have to keep covered, once you pass a certain birthday? Whole chunks of your anatomy consigned to obscurity overnight: the tops of your arms, any leg above the knee – not to mention the baggy knees themselves. And the same goes for wrinkly necks, ageing hands and, now, for bloody toes as well.
I might as well become a Muslim and wear a burka. At least that would cover everything in one fell swoop, whereas, if you used all the cover-ups the magazines suggest, you’d look a right twit: gloves; an artfully draped scarf or a huge necklace; a long skirt (with opaque tights), and long-sleeved tops, segueing neatly into the aforementioned gloves. Soon I’ll need a hat to obscure the bald patch, or a balaclava to cover the incipient beard.
And wearing trousers will be out, too: as Mum says that, one day when you’re least expecting it, your arse suddenly slips sideways and becomes flat and wide, just like that. Talk about something to look forward to.
God knows what Johnny would think if he ever laid eyes on me – which is all the more bothersome a thought since he started emailing me so much more often. He says talking to me ‘puts a smile on his face’ and that even his staff have commented on his change of mood. I suppose anyone working for an oil company would be glad of a distraction from the horror of the Deepwater blowout fn4 at the moment – but it’s flattering, all the same.
I do
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