A FRESH sea breeze is so invigorating. The beneficial effects of the seaside on your average, middle-aged, knackered, pollution-laden urbanite are marvellous to behold (and can produce unexpected results). If Poshmum could bottle it, she would flog it to the husbands of her bestest friends and how grateful they would all be ... or would they? As the summer holiday drew to a close, Poshmum (with friends Lulu and Sally) was still having a marvellous time in her little coastal village. The children played contentedly on the beach during the lulls between downpours, and the grown-ups were still getting along famously. James received top marks for his attentiveness to Sally and the new baby.
Posh-husband had done a brilliant firefighting job on the work disasters that had followed him, wraithlike, down the A12 from London; he could now prop his Sperry Topsiders on the nearest chair and knock back the G & Ts with the rest of them. Even Lulu’s husband Howard (a Bostonian who had spent childhood summers in Cape Cod) magnanimously declared the village very quaint and compared it all favourably with Nantucket, despite the local pub turning a deaf ear to his repeated requests for chowder.
Howard had a number of irritating “jokes” in this vein. On their sightseeing trip to a famous medieval town, he “hilariously” conversed in “Olde English” all afternoon and nearly drove them all mad. Although he had a brain the size of a planet, he was short, plump and distinctly nerdy, with a fearsome competitive streak and a minuscule capacity for alcohol. This may be why he often beat Sally to be the first to slope off to bed. In fairness, he was an excellent sailor, which is why Poshhubby liked him, and how he and Lulu had met. That evening, as she observed him over the rim of her glass, Poshmum wondered speculatively how tall, hearty, and decidedly non-intellectual Lulu had coped with him for ten years.
The answer was soon revealed. After one particularly wine-soaked evening (Posh-hubby and James had sung their repertoire of rugby songs, running the gamut from smutty to anatomically impossible), Poshmum, who had overindulged tremendously, awoke with a start in desperate need of water. Feeling as if her head was impaled upon the pillow with a roughly hewn stake, she attempted to rouse Posh-hubby without moving anything but her left hand. When this proved unsuccessful, she tried to call out but found that she was tempora-rily incapable of speech.
There was nothing for it; she would have to go down to the kitchen herself, a feat that would require heroic effort. Fortunately, Poshmum was made of stern stuff — with a head that was clanging like a ship’s bell, and the corridor pitching and yawing beneath her, she shut her eyes and silently groaned her way down the stairs, attempting a walk that was forward in motion yet entirely motionless.
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At the door, she paused; in her head, the groans grew louder. She creaked her lids open, and steeled herself to withstand the pain of the electric lights. She flicked the switch and was most taken aback to find James and Lulu spreadeagled on the kitchen table. Springing apart like a pair of scalded and rather dishevelled cats, they gaped as Poshmum, with expressionless, superhuman composure, walked over to the butler’s sink and gulped some water from the tap.
Turning to face them, with glass in hand, she said: “I’ve got the most dreadful head; anyone else want some water? No? Sure?” They stared at her silently. “OK, then,” she said. “See you in the morning. Goodnight.” And with that she returned to bed, cackling evilly to herself and thinking: “I must remember to swab down that table.” And with one final cackle, she went back to sleep.
PM
Microwave Man is away