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.