Arriving on the dismal Isle of Man, our hapless heroine finds that, even at this time of year, Thanksgiving is not on the menu
Hi, diary. This week I have been mainly: keeping my hands from around my husband’s throat. Because, though love is blind, boy, is marriage one helluva eye opener. Sorry, I don’t mean to sound bitter about being dragged to a rock in the middle of the Irish Sea – in winter – but, hey, I am, so I do.
In case you didn’t know, here is a tiny island pretty much equidistant from Great Britain, Ireland, Scotland… in fact, everywhere else in the entire civilized world. The highlights? Well, the Isle of Man has a flag consisting of bent human legs and is home to the oldest parliament in the world, which all calls to mind a crazy old bunch of Gandalfs building wicker men and burning outsiders at the stake. And – that’s about it. Oh, and Barry Gibb was born here, but that’s hardly a recommendation, is it?
Home Sweet Home, it turns out, is a decrepit Victorian manse on the outskirts of the capital, Douglas. By the end of the first week I’d visited both shops, been banned from all three bars, and was spiralling into depression. To make things up to me, Big Frank decided to spoil me rotten by taking me out on the town and showing me the sight. Which was – ta-da! – the world’s largest water wheel. Well, whoop-de-freaking-do. Hubby #3 sure knows how to pull out all the stops. Still in a way I was relieved as I’d heard the island’s top spot was Gef the Talking Mongoose.
Trying to cheer me up a second time, Big Frank consulted Fodor’s Everything You Can Possibly Do On The Isle of Man: Complete And Unabridged – both pages – but found that every entry was ‘Closed For The Season’. Eventually, he selected the Douglas Head Incline Railway and Falcon Cliff Lift. Whatever that was. After two and a half hours trudging through a hailstorm, we found out. Being a broken tin shed and a vending machine with a sign on it that read, ‘Warning: this machine takes your money and gives you nothing in return’.
Sounds just like my ex.
Hubby’s third fabulous idea was to announce that as a special treat he’d arranged Thanksgiving with family – and was flying in cousin Edna and her husband (the fake Scottish laird who insisted I call him ‘Uncle’) from their baronial home in the Highlands for the annual stuffathon. I was speed-dialing even before the words were out of his little piggy mouth.
“There’s been an outbreak of turkey plague,” I informed the pair who were already in their helicopter, mid-flight. “We’re quarantined.”
The God Squad were unconvinced, which is not surprising as most times, it was all I could do to stop conversations centering on the eternal salvation of my immortal soul.
“You’re lying,” cousin Edna replied. “That’s a sin.”
“And the wages of sin is death,” Uncle Feckswithin added.
“Well, hey, at least I’ll get paid,” I replied. “But, y’know, unfortunately you’re preaching to the perverted.”
“You do realize you’re going straight to Hell in a handbasket.”
“Gucci handbag, darling,” I corrected her.
