meaning.
My eyes slid lower. Oh, God! My thighs were spilling over two black stocking tops like lava from a fresh volcano. Flinging the teddy floorwards, I tore off the nylons. Unfortunately, what lay beneath was acres of white flesh. Luckily, by rummaging in the bathroom cabinet, I found an old bottle of fast tan. While the kids yapped around me, demanding to know why their fingers and nostrils had to be kept apart when they so obviously
fitted
and whether sneezes were really ‘your soul trying to escape’, I slapped and slurped the tan on to my anaemic skin. There, that would do the trick.
But forty minutes or so later (after I’d explained to Jamie that only his Aunt Vicky was allowed to pick her nose – and then only from a catalogue and postulated with Julia on the theological concept of after-life) what had seemed richly Mediterranean in the privacy of my own bathroom had begun to look Rajhneeshi under the bright rays of late-afternoon sun. In fact, my ‘tan’ pulsated. It radiated – but more tandoori than tanning salon. I looked as if I was wearing a tangerine wet-suit, with darker elbow patches, knee-pads and ankle straps.
Heart palpitating, I checked the time. Six forty-five. Hugo would be home in fifteen minutes. After I had packed the children off to Cal’s next door garden to shoot some hoops and horse around, I frantically pumiced myself with a nailbrush while panic gnawed at my insides. No luck. I took to my poor body with a pot-scourer, exfoliating myself down to a pretzel. Still no improvement. Followed by a sand blaster. But still nothing. Just orange. I looked like a distress flare. People could employ me at the scene of a boating accident.
Oh, boy, did I feel sexy now. It was clear that I was soon going to be mastering
The Kama Sutra For One
. In desperation I reached for the sex aids. The benwah-balls brochure promised orgasmic bliss. But what it didn’t say was that inserting these chrome bowling balls would be like childbirth, only backwards. And with no epidural. And once I’d put them in, would I ever get them out again? If not, I was in for the most embarrassing airport security metal detector search ever. By the time I gave up, panting and exasperated, I was so depleted with exhaustion that I had to eat the banana-flavoured erecto-gel.
With the sound of my husband’s key grating in the lock, I leapt on to the bed to lie sensuously among pillows that I now noticed were splattered with squashed chicken nuggets. Eyes darting urgently downwards for a final check, I saw that my bright orange body was decorated in tiny handprints from where the kids had been clambering up me earlier. A trail of little paw marks had developed with Polaroid speed up both legs. Even stranger, I seemed to have hirsute toenails. Oh, God! My pube trimmings had fallen into the wet nail polish and dried there. As much as I yanked and pulled, they remained cement-rendered. So much for being ‘alluring’ and ‘sensual’! Distressed, I shoved my mohair feet under the sheet, which I tugged up over my puckered, baby-marked belly. I could hear Hugo’s step on the stair; he always came straight up to change out of his suit. Perspiration was beading my top lip. Dry of mouth, I licked my lips – only to discover I was still wearing moustache bleach. Dry-retching from the poisonous taste, I wiped it with the nearest thing to hand – which I identified too late as my expensive new lingerie. But then I gawked into the bedside mirror to see that the bleach had been on so long it had turned my top lip albino. It neoned out at me from my reflection – an iridescent white. Bloody hell! I also had a stress pimple erupting on my nose. Now
there
’s a good look – wrinkles and pimples.
Thank
you, God. To complete the seductive image, I then noticed a nasty underarm shaving rash. Worse, although I’d hidden my aggressive sea creature in a pair of delicate silk scanties, the spikes were poking through. Jesus! My pubic hairs
My eyes slid lower. Oh, God! My thighs were spilling over two black stocking tops like lava from a fresh volcano. Flinging the teddy floorwards, I tore off the nylons. Unfortunately, what lay beneath was acres of white flesh. Luckily, by rummaging in the bathroom cabinet, I found an old bottle of fast tan. While the kids yapped around me, demanding to know why their fingers and nostrils had to be kept apart when they so obviously
fitted
and whether sneezes were really ‘your soul trying to escape’, I slapped and slurped the tan on to my anaemic skin. There, that would do the trick.
But forty minutes or so later (after I’d explained to Jamie that only his Aunt Vicky was allowed to pick her nose – and then only from a catalogue and postulated with Julia on the theological concept of after-life) what had seemed richly Mediterranean in the privacy of my own bathroom had begun to look Rajhneeshi under the bright rays of late-afternoon sun. In fact, my ‘tan’ pulsated. It radiated – but more tandoori than tanning salon. I looked as if I was wearing a tangerine wet-suit, with darker elbow patches, knee-pads and ankle straps.
Heart palpitating, I checked the time. Six forty-five. Hugo would be home in fifteen minutes. After I had packed the children off to Cal’s next door garden to shoot some hoops and horse around, I frantically pumiced myself with a nailbrush while panic gnawed at my insides. No luck. I took to my poor body with a pot-scourer, exfoliating myself down to a pretzel. Still no improvement. Followed by a sand blaster. But still nothing. Just orange. I looked like a distress flare. People could employ me at the scene of a boating accident.
Oh, boy, did I feel sexy now. It was clear that I was soon going to be mastering
The Kama Sutra For One
. In desperation I reached for the sex aids. The benwah-balls brochure promised orgasmic bliss. But what it didn’t say was that inserting these chrome bowling balls would be like childbirth, only backwards. And with no epidural. And once I’d put them in, would I ever get them out again? If not, I was in for the most embarrassing airport security metal detector search ever. By the time I gave up, panting and exasperated, I was so depleted with exhaustion that I had to eat the banana-flavoured erecto-gel.
With the sound of my husband’s key grating in the lock, I leapt on to the bed to lie sensuously among pillows that I now noticed were splattered with squashed chicken nuggets. Eyes darting urgently downwards for a final check, I saw that my bright orange body was decorated in tiny handprints from where the kids had been clambering up me earlier. A trail of little paw marks had developed with Polaroid speed up both legs. Even stranger, I seemed to have hirsute toenails. Oh, God! My pube trimmings had fallen into the wet nail polish and dried there. As much as I yanked and pulled, they remained cement-rendered. So much for being ‘alluring’ and ‘sensual’! Distressed, I shoved my mohair feet under the sheet, which I tugged up over my puckered, baby-marked belly. I could hear Hugo’s step on the stair; he always came straight up to change out of his suit. Perspiration was beading my top lip. Dry of mouth, I licked my lips – only to discover I was still wearing moustache bleach. Dry-retching from the poisonous taste, I wiped it with the nearest thing to hand – which I identified too late as my expensive new lingerie. But then I gawked into the bedside mirror to see that the bleach had been on so long it had turned my top lip albino. It neoned out at me from my reflection – an iridescent white. Bloody hell! I also had a stress pimple erupting on my nose. Now
there
’s a good look – wrinkles and pimples.
Thank
you, God. To complete the seductive image, I then noticed a nasty underarm shaving rash. Worse, although I’d hidden my aggressive sea creature in a pair of delicate silk scanties, the spikes were poking through. Jesus! My pubic hairs
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