Times are still tough for Bettie as she gets forced to offer
her inimitable talents for Hubby #3’s online casino.
Formally released a week later, me and mine breezed in to find
the Isle of Man was hotter than July. In
July. Go figure. Chomping at the bit to start the task of turning around the
fortunes of 39-4-Ever, I started scribbling out plans to add a host of hot
extras to the site; a Dear Abby column, multiple choice therapy quizzes, debt
counselling, etc… The final list was impressive, and certainly firmly in my
mind as I joined Hubby #3 at his weekly Gambling Gathering Group (being the
official meet-up for all the folks who run e-gaming on the island). It was a
poor show as the gang now consisted of the lads from 666Bet, Doris with the
drooping eyelid from StripPokerStars, and the suited brigade from Macrogaming. Huddled
around a small table in the non-air conditioned sweatbox that is the Parrot and
Mongoose, a clutch of bon vivants we
ain’t.
Still, the press coverage
garnered from my High Court hijinks gave us a much-needed cash injection – as
did the fact that our web address got spray painted on the back of a camel that
happened to catch fire and was filmed by CNN in an effort to fill a lull in its
24/7 Iraqi Blitz ’n’ Titz live coverage. This minor blip of excitement aside
and finally home at last, I unpacked the Duty Free, watched the sun set through
my vodka and lime, then checked my messages. Worryingly, I found Jerinda’s
daily emails were already stacking up.
> Are You Prepared To
Cross Life’s Electric Fence?
> Get All Your Pistons
Firing As You Start Living Your Wow-Now!
> Are You Ready To Show
Off Your Big Fat Hairy Goal?
After twenty or so of these high-drama calls to action, I
needed to lie down in a darkened room. Regrettably, sleep was not – alas! – on tonight’s agenda. For no
sooner had I said hello to Mister Sandman, then my iPhone started blaring out
Wagner’s Flight of the Valkyries. Aw,
crap! It was my psychotic prom-queen bitch of a stepsister, Muffy.
“How considerate of you to call me in the middle of the
night,” I said. “We’re five hours ahead, remember.”
“Are you? It’s hard to keep track. Anyhow, I’m just home
from my yogic-therapy evening and thought I’d call. I was just trying to be
nice…”
“Nice? You’re nice in the same way that you’re blonde.”
“I am so offended by that remark.”
“I’ll let you know if I start giving a damn.”
Icy silence reigned, then:
“I’ve spent the evening with Helmut…”
“Your therapist? That guy’s such a jerk.”
“Oh, I just adore him,” she said, sounding like she was
calling from the 1950s. She also, I noticed, sounded out of breath.
“Are you calling from your treadmill?” I questioned.
“No, tantric sex. Nothing really happens for hours, so I’m
catching up on my To-Dos…”
It was then that I asked if there was an actual point to the
call – other than to pant in my ear?
To which Muffy replied that she had started investigating alternative therapies
to cure her mother’s insanity. And that she was sending her batshit crazy quack
over for a series of sessions.
Boy, now there’s something to so look forward to. As if the Isle of Man wasn’t littered with
enough loons, already…
