Much to her dismay, Bettie finally realises that her
new-found involvement in the trials and troubles of 39-4-Ever is going to mean
that she’ll have to do some work…
Why does my life have this habit of always getting
complicated? While already having a troubled third marriage, an ailing online
portal, one high-passion, low-cost lover, one high-drama, low-sanity
stepmother, and a dodgy hip after
falling overboard spectating at the Isle of Man hosted Olympic event of
Synchronized Mackerel Trawling – now
Big Frank says I’ve gotta earn my keep.
Sorry, diary, just had to have a little pause there to take
a mental douche. Apparently, money’s getting tighter than a gnat’s a-hole, and
Hubby #3’s had to let quite a few of 39-4-Ever’s staff go. And guess who he’s
nominated to fill their forums? Still, the way I see it I’ve little actual
choice. For while grannie always used to say, “Marry in haste. Repent in costume
jewellery,” I’ve found that the real trouble with men is that you can’t live
with ’em, and can’t buy anything without ’em.
And while I’m not one to promote – or even suggest I have – weaknesses, it’s also hard to
admit that the reason I’ve never had a career is because basically, well, let’s
face it, I’m unemployable. The mere thought of travelling three and a half
hours every day in bumper to-bumper traffic to be the whipping post for a
megalomaniacal boss with sado-masochism as one of his Facebook Likes sets off
my psoriasis. Friends have suggested that perhaps I could work for myself, but,
unfortunately, the same rules apply.
At the other end of the spectrum – in many categories – is my housemaid,
Mona. When I talked to her about my predicament, she stopped mid-oven scrub and
announced that to make ends meet, she had three
jobs. I was almost as shocked as when she announced, “I ’ave me fingers in a
lot of pies,” while Big Frank was eating her apple surprise. I mean, I didn’t
even know they advertised for Internet trolls.
“When I’m not scrubbin’ my bowels out here,” Mona bemoaned,
“I’ve got a craft stall flogging me real-hair handicrafts – and then there’s
the charity work…”
Well, at least I think that’s what she said. Most of the time, her dialect’s so thick I can’t understand
a word she’s saying. Apparently, the last native Manx speaker died in 1974.
Probably starved to death trying to order dinner.
While I had not had the pleasure of experiencing her table
mat sets made from pubic clippings, I have seen her in full-on animal welfare
action on the Douglas dock front a few weeks back. She was standing shaking a
bucket of assorted coinage under a sign that read: ‘Fighting Donkey Cruelty
Since 1891’. Obviously it was taking her a lot longer than she thought. For
every donation, Mona also gave away a selection of trinkets. But I wonder,
could she not see the irony of giving good luck charms to children in bags
marked ‘Potential Choke Hazard’?
“Do you think donkey coats will ever come into fashion?” I’d
asked, staring at the various posters, poised to part with my two dimes and a
Dr Pepper bottle cap.
“I hate mule-baiting,” she replied. “It gets on me nerves.”
