The Diary of Claire Champagne - 3. Bigfoot Champagne

A white gel begemmed big toe refracts the light from heaven as I step out of the door, I go down the stairs, turn right and walk along the pavement. One singular credit card with a five thousand pound limit flies around my massive handbag. I have dumped my keys, my wallet, everything else onto my bed. Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law as today I have decided to abandon my children. I have dutifully opted to dissolve my functional and legal capacity as a maternal party, thereby terminating the parent-child contractual nexus between me and my dependents. When an attractive, smart and savvy socialite ignores their gut feeling, they can easily descend into sex cult indoctrination. Anxiety, fear and fine tuned female intuition are seen as hurdles to overcome in order to jailbreak your own brain, for it to function at full 100% capacity using pure reason alone. I look into my heart to connect to my higher self and as clear as day I can see that motherhood is not for me. 

I wonder if I’m taking the same path as Nelly the dog did, and wonder if she felt similar to me when she took herself out for a walk and never came home. The doggy was having her tail pulled and her bed stolen everyday, by the children, not by me. I admire her for making the right decision for herself. She looked around at the situation and thought, ‘Nope, this isn’t where I’m supposed to be’. She is a lucky girl, I think she had about four or five litters. Her puppies floated up into the air and up through the clouds like dandelion puffs on the wind of Facebook Marketplace. She was totally unencumbered and was able to live her truth. I was hurt and on reflection probably jealous when she ran away, which is why I didn’t look very hard for her, but I think leaving her to her own devices was the right thing to do and respected her canine autonomy. It wasn’t like our house was hard to find as she is a dog and it’s not like our house doesn’t smell sometimes.

I step a few step, step, steps with my white toenails that poke out of my white satin sandals, as, despite the circumstances, or perhaps in light of taking full ownership over my failings and taking full accountability of my full personhood while acknowledging my strengths and weaknesses, I am feeling jubilant so I need to walk around. I need to walk down the street on the planet that I live on and feel the interconnected energetic harmony between me and all things. This is a big change and is an important part of the story of my life. I will think back on this monumental moment. I will get on public transport when my cortisol quiets.

A bad thing happened a week ago, I waited a week after it happened in order to make a grounded and fully rounded decision on what direction my life should take. I went to the supermarket with 4 of the children, the girl, the boy and the twins. One would assume that as a single mother with a rather hectic attitude towards DIY and a vibrant and electric spirit that my offspring would be raring up and down the aisles, throwing cans at pensioners and ripping each other to shreds. Unfortunately my children’s personality disorders present themselves in far more insidious ways which makes it virtually impossible to get an NHS diagnosis. I feel as if I’m a Catherine wheel going off inside a freezer, my children have nothing to express. The plain eyes of my children disturb me. They are calm, mild mannered, and polite. I receive endless praise from others for how fantastically I have raised them. This creates more isolation. They’re fantastic at being filmed for my Youtubes, and when the cameras shut off, they behave exactly the same. Skinwalkers maybe I’m not sure, they could be aliens or Indigo children also. They hold onto the trolley nicely as I walk around the supermarket to buy them food. The twins have fallen asleep.

They have octopuses at the moment in the frozen section at Lidl because it’s coming up to Christmas. I put a few of them in the trolley to defrost in the bath for the children and I to play with later. Everyone is just shopping normally around me. I forgot to get a treat so I went back towards the bakery section to get a cookie. The trolley was sturdy and heavy, I could say I don’t know what came over me but I do know what came over me, it was total boredom. It was a very painful feeling like holding onto a frozen pole. My retail therapy attempt had failed as everything in the reduced section was only discounted by between 20 and 70p, and there was nothing I didn’t already have from the middle aisle. There was an inflatable Christmas star that I didn’t buy as George Michael goes on the top of the tree. I can say exactly what happened because you cannot arrest me and I dare you to even try. I tripped the trolley over, which by the way is not a crime. I didn’t think it would even tip because it was so sturdy and heavy, but I just wanted to see how much strength it would take to do it and I just wanted my shopping and the twins to fall out of the trolley. It was really heavy and hard to tip over but I did it and everything spilled out onto the floor. The left twin rolled out of the seat silently with its eyes closed. Puffy and round in its Jack Wills coat it rolled so funnily and slowly, I think I saw it roll over at least 4 times and I noticed with concern that not a single muscle in my body twitched. I watched and it rolled into the baked goods display which pushed the shelves over and backwards creating a ladder. The baby rolled up, covering itself in flour as it went straight up and into the oven. The door closed and it cooked for the perfect amount of time. The oven door opened and there it was, a freshly baked loaf of bread. I walked over to it and held it in my arms and it smelt as good as the day it was delivered. 

I remember that part very clearly but I suppose I must’ve taken a funny turn as I woke up cuddling the slow cashier that’s got a facial abnormality. I usually avoid that woman’s checkout queue but I suppose we had become acquainted as she was intimately rubbing my back and stroking my hair in a staff only area. Sometimes I faint because I’m anemic but I also occasionally abuse painkillers and when I haven't eaten or when I’ve smoked a cigarette, I can collapse while crossing the road or while I’m driving the car. The room was brightly lit and my eyes felt hungover. Two children were sitting near me by a kitchen area tea station and once a twin, now the baby was playing with a health and safety sign on the floor. The cashier spoke to me in a baby voice, 

‘Oh hello Love, you took a bit of a spill there, how are you feeling Hmm? A bit scary but everything is okay, Yeah? Just take some time to get yourself together, I’m looking after you. You’ve had a bit to eat now, do you want me to go and make you a cup of tea?’.

I noticed I was itchy and completely covered in crumbs, I looked down at my bloated belly popping out over my jeans and in my lap was a bit of rounded crust. My stomach gurgled and I felt the gas bubbling up inside me and I felt 10 times fatter. I had eaten the entire baby. I was completely shocked, it had weighed 8 pounds 6 ounces last I heard and I hadn’t eaten bread in coming up to 9 months at that point. Unlike the regret after overeating a big takeaway, the egg had already been cracked and barfing wouldn’t fix the problem. One child of mine had gone to live with the maths teacher a while ago and now a baby had already been half digested. 

Off I go walking down the pavement, I need to get out of here. I filled the food bowls up in big piles on the table and left the backdoor unlocked for outside time. Life always finds a way, all streams lead towards the ocean. Off I go to the bowling alley, it was big and looked like every bowling alley anyone has ever been to, to wait for something to happen to me. I walked over to the bar and tried to order a big bubbly beer and my card got declined, which means that the card I had left on the kitchen table had been run up to the maximum already. I sure hope they had bought enough groceries to live on. Luckily for me I found another secret card in my back jeans pocket, yay! So I bought a big drink and went over to the arcade. Oh my god is this embarrassing? A woman in her fine wine age alone playing at an arcade? I would never say that I am middle aged as we truly don't know what the future holds and I think that’s a very pessimistic way of looking at life. I never give up, apart from in regards to my children. Suffering with depression anyway makes child rearing the last thing on your mind. They have a new VR machine at the arcade which I am going to try, I scroll through the various scenarios. They must be translated from Chinese, it’s some machine called VR-POWER. Birds and Hamburgers - Be like a bird, you will experience a crazy escape journey by this film. Dr Horribles - The doctor received a mysterious phone call, so he went to the appointment, and the journey of horror opened the curtain. Bloody Road 3 - In the escaping escape journey, you saw the figure of the girl you loved. Finally, in order to save the girl, bring the evil mask and become the most perverted murderer you once hated. I choose that one and sit inside the blue glowing egg and put the VR headset on. 

I’m the size of a fly, flying around the inside of a new chinese car. They are showing me where all the controls on this new car are and how to make the windows go up and down and that the seats are heated and that it has bluetooth capabilities, it does look like a fantastic new car. The view zooms out and I see the gorgeous new car on a rickety wooden track. I’m on a kind of clown rollercoaster zooming after a blonde girl who’s hair doesnt move and then it goes into a clowns mouth and I’m in some kind of tube that looks like an anus with hands trying to grab me, then the girl is standing staticly on train tracks and a train runs her over and she disappears, then the train explodes and im moving through the flying carriages in the air while trombones and grandfather clocks fly towards me. The textures are so computery and the movements are so static and robotic. Maybe this kind of thing is normal in China I don’t know but it certainly doesn’t suit my western tastes. I close my eyes and enjoy the rumble of my seat and shuffle up against the saddle. I relax for a minute and then there’s an extremely loud distorted scream in my left ear and I open my eyes and the girl is spread out on a sacrificial plinth being exploded and her veins and arteries explode out of her like spaghetti and blood droplets spawn over and over from the same spot the droplets shooting directly into my eyes and the scream loops over and over again. They’re shouting something in French at me which is indecipherable over the screams and explosions. Her corpse then rises and screams at me and I’m holding a big AR 15 and I shoot a million bullets into her head and there’s a huge even bigger blood explosion and then the plinth explodes and the sound cuts off half way and the nice rumble stops abruptly. It then shows the car and spins it around and it says Enjoy this amazing new car!

That was alright, I get up off the egg and thankfully before I know where my legs are supposed to take me I’m approached by a youth about my son’s age who asks me if I want him to win me something out of the claw machine. It’s dark in the arcade so I think my glittery jeans must’ve hypnotised him from afar. I say yes sure and pick the machine which is most in the dark, the prize in that one is a novelty sized massive cadbury bar. I of course don’t want it.We kind of talk a little bit but his shyness is helpful as he cannot look into my eyes. He asks me if I’m at college and I tell him that I own a jewellery shop in Paris which also is a teddy bear hospital and that I live in an apartment above it but I am here visiting my Auntie who lives in Tittering and that I’m also an influencer and I’m vlogging my journey and I ask if I can film him and he says no, so I get out my phone and I film the machine. He then tries again to grab the big cadbury bar and I think the claw is too weak to grab it, he tries a few more times and I tell him it’s okay don’t bother, but he keeps trying until his money runs out. He doesn’t talk while I’m filming and I’m trying to look like I’m having fun but he is completely ignoring me. This must’ve been his 15th try and he’s getting very angry and punches the machine. I tell him to please not bother but he ignores me and tries again, he doesn’t get it and he grabs the machine and shakes it and then punches the buttons. He then gets a knife out of his pocket and pries off all the buttons and then stabs the exposed wires underneath the buttons. Oh yes, Go go go! Don’t let that machine get the better of you! I say and he tells me to shut up. He takes my drink from me and pours it into the holes in the machine and it floods the bottom where the chocolate is lying, it floats to the top and he grabs the sides of the machine and tips it to the side using his muscley strength and the chocolate falls out the bottom. What a winner! I put my hand in the flap and grab it out. He’s looking around nervously because he’s about to get in trouble and he asks me if i want to go and sit in his car, a kid with a car! Ooh la la! I tell him yes please and that we can split my choccy! 

We sit next to each other in the front of the car and he turns on some music which is kind of like rap music but I think meant to sound bad on purpose. He still hasn’t had a proper look at me and I think my Cloud by Ariana Grande perfume has cemented the illusion, I try to hum along to the music and bounce my arms to show that I love it and he doesn’t move. He’s smoking weed out of an electric pen. Now we are having sex and I am looking out the back window. His penis going into me is kind of not noticeable which is not exactly preferable to feeling some kind of pain, which is a kind of sensation you can try to convince yourself to interpret another way. Instead it’s more of a dull tickle or someone giving you a light scratch on a bit that wasn’t really itchy. Okay well there he goes and I assume it’s going in and out. Sex is like when you’re on the bus on the way home from work and someone you kind of know comes on and you make eye contact with them but they still give you the courtesy to sit on the completely opposite side of the bus to you. I don’t feel like scratching my own skin off like when I have an awkward conversation with a coworker or with a lover which feels very similar to me. It’s great to agree together on doing some preparation, then engaging in a beginning and middle and an end together. That is called an experience. As I’m being bumped against with a sub zero chance of an orgasm I see there’s a trail of what must be blood that’s been dragged into concrete of the car park. There’s a big splatter behind the car and a lone brogue shoe, with a line leading to the corner of the car park where the recycling bins are kept. I can see movement there beside it, I assume it’s a group of drug addicts partying. I wonder if anyone in this carpark will look into the window and see me, I wonder if actually it’s a good thing if I kept my face blank. I could say that I got a tampon stuck in my cervix and I asked this young man to help me fish it out or that I’m just playing with my son and I’m giving him a ride on my back like a donkey in the back seats of my car, and if they wouldn’t mind to please give us some privacy. A car turns a corner and the headlights shine onto the huddle, there are what look like two nude women completely covered in hair with dark dripping and wet matting around their mouths like they’d just eaten a spaghetti dinner. They had long nails but no make up, behind them are the tall dark trees leading into the dirty neglected waterway and nature reserve where people let their dog’s shit. Classic lesbians having a threesome with Aunt Flo! They’re startled and drag some clumps of stuff along behind them and run into the forest. Vagrants. As a runaway and unfortunate orphan now at the age of 52, I don’t exactly think it’s hard to put some lippy on when nothing else is going your way. I have to get myself out of bed and drag myself out into the world and cooperate in order to survive and eat disgusting food and get smelly throughout the day just like everyone else does in this fucking world, and I do it all in a pair of high heels!

The Diary of Claire Champagne - 2. Whicked Whims

I recently had a very interesting experience. I suddenly woke in the middle of the night and saw my bedroom door slowly eek open. I tried to shout, thinking it was one of my children, to tell them to go back to bed, but my voice died in my throat. I couldn’t move my body and I was covered in a painful, numb, pins-and-needles sensation that I couldn’t shake off. The door was now ajar, and standing in the doorway was the shape of a man. He was walking with wide strides but he wasn’t moving, as if he were on a treadmill, floating slightly above the floor. He was very slowly coming toward my bed, but I couldn’t make out any of his features, he looked like a swarm of flies. I felt tremendous fear as if I were trapped inside of a corpse and my skin was full of solid cement. It was likely that I had left the front door open by accident again, but no matter how many times it happens, it’s always scary when a strange man enters your house while you’re asleep.

He jumped and drifted into the air, his body scrunched up like a bad drawing, and then his legs slowly extended, the heels of his shoes aimed toward my chest. He was falling like this for what felt like five minutes, and when he finally made contact with my chest, I felt intense pressure. My thoughts raced a thousand times faster than the physical world around me, and every microsecond of pain was outstretched in front of me. His shoes sank into my chest like a hydraulic press, and my shoulder blades cut through my skin, stabbing into the wooden floorboards underneath the bed.

I was pinned in place, and he proceeded to enter me. It felt like a great big thing crawling all over me. I was suffocated by a hot, foul smell of rotten oranges and sour milk, but when you regularly have sex with men, middle aged men, old men, disgust goes hand in hand with it. This experience wasn’t really too different from normal, and I could feel myself start to relax. Like a glass being filled with black milk, I could feel rats scramble inside my body, their claws popping out through the ends of my finger pads.

The next week, I arose from my satin tomb undisturbed, surrounded by a positive aura of scent-boosting laundry beads. My erotic, demonic entanglement had been so sensorily vivid that I felt as if my brain had been pierced, and I was walking around with it stitched to me like a shadow. Sex with other men just wasn’t scratching the itch; it’s always like, yeah well kind of but not exactly like that... I suppose that comes with being a Queen, raising a family, having excellent interest rates on my ISA, maintaining a perfect house, and doing it all in high heels. Therefore, I find it very difficult to respect anyone else. Although I had let the chores build up, I have to confess, and childminding ended up taking a bit of a backseat. My general relationships with my children definitely need some work. I had a spat with a few of them a couple of weeks ago because I am just honest to a fault and wear my heart on my sleeve. I just wish my children weren’t so heteronormative, is that such a crime? That I wish for my children to paint with all the colours of the wind? Now is the time to experiment and get away with it, and I feel jealous of the gay children that other mums have at school. My children are obviously not neurotypical, but the NHS simply can’t be bothered to diagnose children with personality disorders, so I suppose we’ll just let the BPD and psychopathy fester and mature then. Thank you ever so much. Jehovah, my third son, is most likely to be the gay one as he compliments me sometimes, but he threatened to go and live with my ex-husband when I tried to calmly explain to him that I would appreciate him wearing my nice shoes around the house. Anyway, a few of them are choosing not to speak to me, which is alright as it leaves me some space to pursue my own interests. Hashtag no filter problems.

I’ve tried a few different methods to trigger my hallucination again, like getting really drunk or making myself dehydrated. I’ve tried to focus really hard on my problems, but the anxiety just doesn’t seem to stick. I wanted that feeling of being innocent, with my desires completely out of my hands. They’re bad, and I’m so so good, but setting up that situation in reality, unfortunately, has baggage and consequences. I booked some time off work at Superdrug to experiment with some more rigorous methods. I thought about making some kind of chemical potion with the bottles under the kitchen sink, but I don’t want to give myself brain damage or accidentally kill myself. I could probably eat laundry powder or dishwasher crystals, and I have thought about that often, but I think that would be more of just a fun sensory experience. When the children came home from school, I shouted at them for their less-than-empathetic huffs toward me and I shoved them into their rooms, locking the doors but ensuring they had their Nintendo Switches to keep them occupied. I reckon just one more rigorous attempt would stop this niggling irritation, and I could get back to normal.

I lit some candles for a sexual atmosphere, turned the lights off, and took my jeans and knickers off, as I don’t think a ghost can undo buckles or zips. I put a thick bag for life over my head, doubled over an elastic band around my neck, and lay down on the sofa. After a couple of minutes, I got short of breath and kind of lightheaded. I reckoned that if I tore it off a few seconds before I passed out, that would probably do the trick. My eardrums swelled and felt like they were about to explode. My eyes rolled back into my head so I could see my little pink brain. I felt my survival instinct whimper inside my body, and when I could hear it speak, I took my index finger to pry the rubber band around my neck loose, but the Chinese glue I use for my press-ons made my nail pop off. I felt too weak to move and had that dead muscle feeling all over me. I felt like I did last summer when, on an adult’s camping trip, I accidentally spilled a whole bottle of poppers on the floor of my tent. Like a magician’s cloth being placed over my head and whipped away,  I disappeared off the face of the earth.

I woke up a bit later being joggled and shouted at by my brother in law, my sister must’ve let themselves in. Both of them looked horrified, but it was quite funny to have my fanny out on full display in front of him with my uglier sister looking on from across the room. I wonder if that little show has had any permeating consequences between their sheets. I tried to tell them, like, Oh , a man came into the house and tried to kill me, he took my trousers and knickers off as well! But I don’t think they believed me,

"I don't believe you," my sister said tearfully, pacing in and out of the room.

Their disbelief was very annoying; it felt incredibly rude in my own home.

"Claire," Bill began, taking my hand gently, "If you needed help, you could have reached out. You've raised several perfect children and live in a beautiful home, it’s seriously an amazing house and the DIY work you’ve done in the bathroom looks as if it was done by a professional; it's hard to imagine what could cause you to be depressed, which means it must be serious."

I don’t mean to sound arrogant, but the special attention I have since been receiving since my ‘suicide attempt’ have completely soothed the frustrations I had with my own children, and my demonic sexual desires. Everything always works out perfectly for me.

The Diary of Claire Champagne - 1. Asylum Seeker Torture Therapy

A fabulously free morning has been gifted to me through the grace of God. A knock on St-Claire’s door this morning was only returned with the startled tap, tapping of her pet rat’s claws scrambling across the hardwood floor, no response from Madame. Goodness knows what the state that bedroom’s in, but we have come to a peaceful agreement that I shall never open her bedroom door as long as she sweeps up the droppings with her dustpan and brush set. This suits me perfectly fine as I have no interest in popping that stench cork. You hear people saying rats are very clean creatures but I personally don’t see what’s so clean about defecating on the floor, just another psyop conspiracy theory from filthy individuals without class, grace or basic etiquette. Besides, the rats were a little too excited by my last encounter with them and must’ve liked the look of my set of perfect little piggys peeping out from my open toed house mules, displayed like a chorus line of exotic dancers. With a cat-like reflex I fiercely karate kicked that little blighter across the room and against the sharp corner of a shelf, and so, St-Claire’s treaty was established. I breathed a sigh of relief as I didn’t have to trudge through the boring routine of making the children’s breakfast or finding clean clothes for school or asking if they’d done their homework, blah blah blah. She must’ve stayed at her little boyfriend’s house who has a motor to take her into college, and my youngest Walliam is such a fantastic mathe-magician and called to ask if he could stay the night after late night tutoring at his teacher’s house, which is just over the road from his school. Yeah, yeah I know that might sound dodgy! But as his house is next to the school he would have no way of getting away with any funny kind of hanky panky, it would be far too risky and he could lose his job, so I’m very thankful I can leave him with someone responsible who actually cares about his education. I’ve seen Mr Thorpe a couple of times riding around on his bicycle with Walliam straddling him from behind and he’s given me a happy wave and a grin every single time and they seem like they get on a storm. 

I make myself a strong and tall vinegar, aquafaba, wheatgrass and lemon over ice and sip my beauty elixir overlooking my very own kingdom, my white marbled kitchen. I found out how to apply the vinyl stickers myself while I was on the TikTok app and it gives a fabulously luxurious look on a limited budget, although I can see that Walliam’s little ADHD hands have already found themselves picking at the corners of the cabinets. I must remember to administer a punishment when he decides to return home. No breakfast for me this morning as I must keep my abdominal muscles looking tight and toned today. If I turn up to the allotment in a sexy denim mini skirt the nosy pensioners are going to tut tut and think I’m there for something other than gardening, which of course, I am. So I saunter upstairs and dress myself up in a busty, lilac blouse just perfect to tie up britney spears/school girl style after toiling away so humbly in the hot sun, styled with embroidered jeans, ombre sunnies and tall leather boots. I tussle my hair with my Dyson Air Wrap into a boho-chic, loose beach wave style topped with a straw River Island sun hat and use my Dior duo eye palette to blend out a shimmery brown smokey eye to match my mid length chestnut hair. No lippy this morning as I will be arriving at about half past 9 and I need to keep it casual, but I have no problem subtly accentuating my sumptuous strengths. 

My ex husband Simon has decided he would like as little contact as possible with me it seems, 24 years of marriage thrown into the bin after he had selfishly decided to warp his internal image of me into some kind of villianous femme fetale. We all have our flaws, and believe me when I say that the abuse he put me through led me to endless nights screaming and crying in torturous pain. I’ve fallen into the arms of strangers, I’ve destroyed the furniture in our beautiful marital home that I put so much love and care into and where we have created so many happy memories, he has even pushed me as far into endangering the lives of my own children, my world, my pride and joy. His flaws are so numerous I wouldn’t even know where to begin, but I have always stuck by him and refuted every threat of divorce he would heartlessly taunt me with. It seemed for years he was on a mission to destroy everything beautiful we had created together, clearly exhibiting over and over that his wife and children were chopped liver. My self esteem was destroyed and I felt no desire for beauty and glamour, I was withering before his very eyes and he couldn’t give a toss. My life was devoid of affection, never a compliment or a special treat, no matter how many hints I dropped or clippings from catalogs I would stick onto the fridge or place into his shoes. I was a fool, I suffered gladly, and alas, I am but still… a fool in love…

I’d picked up about 50 primroses, violets and irises from B&Q on the way there to place onto my plot, and I had spent over an hour digging holes with a trowel into the hard ground, and placed them all into pretty rows, as if they had sprung up overnight. I don’t exactly have a green manicured thumbnail so whenever I return everything is usually brown and crispy, not as if I’m bothered though as I can change my garden to my own fancies and delight on any given day, I actually have a life unlike these people who obsess over a tiny square of filth. I don’t like vegetables that come from the allotment as they’re covered in soil and insects and they’re always in weird shapes that taste bad, call me high maintenance but I’d much rather someone do all that work for me, it’s one of the delights of modern life, just embrace it! Simon is a psychotherapist working with asylum seekers and refugees giving therapy to them as well as taking them on these little field trips to do cooking classes or paint pictures to calm them down, sounds more like bloody nursery to me which I think is really quite patronising to these people who have gone through torture in other countries. It’s rather typical that the people who are drawn to humanitarian positions are the ones whose life’s goal is to prey upon the most vulnerable in our society, like a pedophillic scout leader or Harold Shipman. I never trusted him around those young women, how is it supposed to make me, his wife feel to know that every day my husband is selfishly prying out sensitive information from women who had been through so much unimaginable pain and abuse, getting his rocks off to these poor lasses cradling babies in their arms, so much so that my boring old sex wasn’t interesting to him after a hard days work. It makes me feel sick to my stomach. I have made it my mission to monitor the torture therapy allotment, as there is a certain Sri Lankan single mother there that my ex husband has taken a shine to who has taken up shelter in his annex. He escorts her there as she has some kind of post traumatic anxiety disorder and can’t go anywhere by herself. She really doesn’t like me looking at her but she doesn’t understand that I’m the only thing saving her from a life of hell, I’ve been there, done that and I know him inside and out.

So there they are, pottering around their little plot. They’re trying to avoid eye contact with me but there’s no way you could miss me, beads of sweat sparkling in the British spring sunlight and my dangling belly bar swinging too and fro, in time with his little lanyard. I know he thinks this little plot of mine is a little plot of mine, Hah! But as the mother of his children, no matter what happens, we are inescapably tethered together by a cosmic chain eternally. After another half an hour of trying to make myself look busy I see that he’s taken the long way round in order to not pass me on the way to the car park. Big mistake, as I’ll just go the normal way round and pounce, where we can finally get some privacy to hash this whole thing out. I sprint to the end of the car park and hide behind the Vauxhall Corsa parked next to his minivan. In the car’s wing view mirror I watch him unlock the fence and towards me he strides, wearing a shirt that I bought him may I add, a subconscious signal if I’ve ever seen one, he beeps the van to unlock it and climbs into the front seat. Like a whippet, I scramble to the passenger side door and try to open it which, much to my chagrin, is locked. Unsurprisingly a habit he must keep to prevent a certain Sri Lankan single mother from escaping I suspect. He turns to me with surprise and lets out a yelp and tries to start the car, but I politely, yet firmly knock on the window informing him that if he has no interest in discussing his own children with me, then I will inform the courts and deprive him of the little custody he has been graciously granted. A sneaky tactic I know, but regardless it’s true, it’s shameful that he thinks he can just saunter around happy as Larry, the big cock of the walk while I am burdened with the brunt of responsibility, rearing his own psychopathic, genetically warped spawn. With a deep sigh, and yet a certain twinkle in his eye that I can so warmly perceive under his shallow display of exacerbation, he unlocks the passenger side door and into the van I climb, making sure he can have a good old gander at everything that he decided just wasn’t enough for his tastes.

‘Claire, please, if you want to have a meeting with me you have to follow the procedures you were given in court, trying to break into my van and banging on the window is not the way to go about things.’

I scoffed, ‘Believe me Simon, if I wanted to get to you at any minute of the day, I could, I chose to do it like this so we can talk calmly, one on one maturely without all that rigamarole involved, you know I can’t express myself properly when we’re being monitored by all those legal people.’

‘Please, just say whatever it is you need to say then. Let's get this over with’.

I sigh and cross my arms, lifting my boots up onto the dashboard one over the other, creating a taught crease between my thigh and my hips, my curves bursting to pop at the seams of my embroidered diamante jeans.

‘Me and the children are very disturbed by the behaviour you have been exhibiting lately, sauntering around with an abused foreign woman on your arm. It's very worrying and it could cost you your job and your family's security, which I know is not exactly your primary concern as you seem far more interested in your cock having a nice warm place to live rather than where we end up.’

I’m using psychological mind tricks in order to pluck at his heart strings, I always know how to wrap him around my little finger.

‘For fucks sake she’s got nowhere to live, she has a wee boy off of assault you know, no education, can’t speak English, can’t get a job.’

‘Perfect for you then, a blank skank you can mould into your perfect little wife, you could never stand it when I stood up for myself, when I showed you I had any sort of backbone at all. I know exactly what you want, someone who can’t see through your little tricks because she can’t even understand you when you speak, what kind of relationship is that? It’s pathetic, and on top of it all, Fantastic! A brand new baby boy for you to neglect to pile on top of the others, congratulations, you must be very proud!’

He took deep breaths and looked down between his legs, tips that he’d learnt from his psychological training in order to soothe himself when faced with the harsh truths only someone who had devoted themselves to him for 24 years could ever reveal. ‘Simon, I know this is hard to hear, and yes maybe I am a little upset over this, but, it isn’t too late to put back together what you’ve broken, you know I have endless forgiveness in my heart for you and we’ve both strayed before, we’ve both made mistakes. Why don’t we just start from square one? You’re never going to be able to recreate what we had with anyone else, everything we’ve built together gone to waste? Two lost and wayward children left without a father?’. I reached over and gently placed a hand on his knee and after a second, slowly traced my hand, following up the seams of his slacks, deep into his inner thigh, reminding him of our sensual romps with my long acrylic nails. I tickled his balls through the fabric. Tears splashed onto my hand, he started shaking and gripping tight onto the steering wheel. His cheeks were flushed and red from immense anticipation.

‘Please just stop this torture, please just leave me alone, I don’t know what to do. If I phone the police then you’ll be taken away and with the lies you’ve fucking told them about me they’ll both end up in care.’

He was vulnerable, he was my prey and I was ready to strike, I decided to turn my sex appeal up to 100. I knew that with a poor little traumatised waif like that, he wasn’t getting any, so I used my sexual tricks in order to restore the sacredity of the nuclear family unit. Women’s rights are all well and good for those who want to use them for their own advantage, but I should also be permitted to use what God has given me to repair what has been so heartlessly broken by a simple man led astray. Men are men and women are women and there is no way when it comes to the basic instincts of human kind he would let this opportunity slip through his fingers. His weeping had developed into hearty, athsmatic sobs as he bawled into his arms crossed on the steering wheel as I started to unbuckle his belt with my hungry fingers. Just then, as I was about to unleash the sad little prick I sympathetically remember so fondly, his phone started to ring. It was little Walliam worked up into a tizzy, I can’t say I wasn’t hurt to see that he had decided to call his father instead of his mummy, but after checking my phone I did see I had 10 missed calls from the little mite. Alas, apparently he couldn’t get to school that morning and was in a panic because his teacher wasn’t letting him out. I have no idea what was going on, probably a misunderstanding but I barely got any information off of Simon before he hung up the phone in a rage and shoved me out the van. I fell out from quite a considerable height onto the asphalt and rolled across the ground as he sped off out the gate.

That was it I suppose, there was no way in hell I would allow my precious angels to be placed every Sunday into the care of somebody who disregarded their basic human rights so easily. A stable family unit, burnt to a crisp. I needed him and his little piece out of my life, the torment had to end. I had become a woman possessed and I had to release myself from this prison, to finally find the strength to grant myself my freedom. I was a song bird in a cage and I needed to learn how to fly. I picked myself up and brushed myself down and with all the strength I could muster, drove myself home and sat down in the computer room. I relaxed and thought clearly, pouring myself a large glass of Casillero del Diablo Sauvignon Blanc and envisioned myself as the proud matriarch I truly was, a lioness protecting her pack. I closed my eyes, lent back into my chair and sucked on a cigarette. 

It wasn’t long until my IQ was sparking into the very upper echelons of possibility when I began to plot my excellentently devised scheme. I opened up Craigslist’s personal services, signed up to an account with a VPN app that my son had installed into the internet and began to spin a devilish thread;

‘Welcome brave gentleman into the deepest, darkest fantasies of a beautiful, athletic mature 43YO british lady if you Are fearless, randy with a stunningly hard cock then keep reading…,

Picture this: my dark stallion, I’m relaxing in my living room, massaging myself all over my beautiful tanned and toned body with smelly lotion while watching the news, I have a candle alight, completely unaware of what naughty monsters lurk amongst the shadows. If you are willing to accept the challenge, then enter into my sensual world. My pleasures are unusual and only for those who are willing to let reality slip from between their fingers…’,

Simon is a miserable pervert one way or the other, and I am writing this listing as a preventative measure. That poor woman has suffered enough in her life, whatever it is that’s happened to her… and yes perhaps, in a small selfish way I am itching for a little bit of sugar and spice while the kids are out of the house. I’m assuming Simon went and picked Walliam up, luckily he loves enforcing the ‘silent treatment’ on me, so I won’t have to deal with that little palaver until tomorrow, hopefully everything’s alright. I am an incredibly strong and brave woman who has only come out the other side of tranormous strife the better. I often daydream about being attacked while walking home at night, how without even letting out a shriek at the first touch of his fingers I would’ve obliterated his testicles into stringy giblets with my stiletto heels or car keys across the pavement. If the attacker was wielding the knife then all the better, as when he was incapactitated and lying on the floor I could use it to have my way with him. I could remove his eyes like avocado stones and glide my knife down through the webbing between his fingers as if preparing a cucumber salad. However, I would have to take careful consideration in ensuring that the wounds appeared defensive and were sustained during the attack, so I couldn’t be too creative as they’d be able to tell I liked it and my victimhood would be called into question. I could probably get away with a quick stab in the mouth through the tongue and as much of an ear as I could get off with a hard chop. I’d wear a tight black pencil skirt to court with 20 denier nylons and patent black heels and hold my trench coat up over my head to appear shy, and my beautiful slender legs would be flashed and filmed from every angle, hoards of men scrambling to get close to me thrusting their microphones into my face and shouting to get my attention. In court I’d hold my own hand and look forlorn and affable, wearing simple silver hoops and a locket around my neck with a picture of my children. I’d hear the guilty verdict and react subtley, letting one glint of a tear fall down my cheek as crowds of people would riot in the street, hysterically screaming my innocence. I would be a feminist hero in prison, I’d suffer like a martyr and be remembered as a saint. After maybe, 10 or so years of incarceration, hopefully with santa’s sacks full of fanmail to read while I solemnly practice my pastels, it’ll be endless tv appearances, interviews on Good Morning Britain, Channel 4 presenting offers, Celebrity Big Brother, the lot, and I’d be set for life.