I dropped Scotto (hubby) at the tin shed we call an airport this evening. He’s off to the big smoke for a week to catch up with his family leaving me at the mercy of the other inmates in the insane asylum I call home.
There was an upside though; it was Friday night and I had full autonomy of the TV remote control. (I can imagine Scotto reading this with his gimlet eye focussed on my words feeling grossly misrepresented by my thinly veiled accusation; but he’s 1000 kilometres away down South so he can’t get me.)
Snuggled on the couch with Pablo Escobark the Chihuahua and Celine the Fox Terrier, I launched my quest to discern an appropriately non-Scotto type programme; something I would find amusing but that I would never dream of inflicting on him.
Looking at the TV guide liftout from the newspaper it seemed there was a plethora of options! Who knew? I could stay up all night and watch whatever my heart desired! I grabbed hold of the magical black flicking machine, giddy with anticipation. Now I would finally find out what I'd been missing every Friday night.
Seven One- ‘Maid in Manhattan’ I’d seen it and didn’t like it the first time. There are only so many times you can rewrite ‘Cinderella’. Flicking furiously I found two more ancient movies on Gem and Go, two channels of football (AFL and NRL) and two infomercial channels hawking hairclips and turquoise jewellery.
Oh, Seven 2 was screening ‘Escape to the Country’ with an unrealistically good looking real estate agent showing prospective buyers refurbished ivy covered pubs in the Cotswolds. I may or may not have seen this one before… it’s a bit hard to tell, I thought.
Disillusioned, I kept flicking… a documentary about some bloke living like an Edwardian in the modern day, four radio channels, ABC News, a documentary about the sex lives of rednecks, a programme about lawyers in Brita … Whoaaa! Back it up there… Sex? Rednecks? This could be the sort of entertaining, philistine crap I’d never watch in front of Scotto.
My interest was piqued and I settled in amongst the dogs and cushions ready to mentally ridicule and lampoon whilst simultaneously assuming an air of haughty superiority.
The show commenced with Marilyn-Lou clutching her Pomeranian. She candidly complained to the camera man about how she and her husband were experiencing a glitch in their sex lives (reading between the lines it seemed that hubby was not pulling his weight). They’d entered into an experiment where a cheap documentary maker challenged them to up the ante and commit to incorporating sex into their lives for seven days straight. It was creatively titled, ‘Seven Days of Sex’.
Now Gaylin, (yes that was the husband’s name I’m not making it up) was sent out to buy lingerie for Marilyn-Lou in the hope that the exciting accoutrement may put some lead in his pencil later on.
The cringe worthy scene where a tremulous (and creepy) Gaylin stood in the store gulping uncomfortably, wiping his brow and skittishly fingering what he called the ‘cute little naughty outfits’ persuaded me to turn it off tout suite. Even Pinky is not that lowbrow.
The dogs and I had an prematurely early night. It appeared I'd need to visit the video shop tomorrow.
