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Monday, December 15, 2014

Why you shouldn’t fight with your husband without proper preparation.

Evil Sangria

Yesterday began fairly normally. We slept in then prepared to go to lunch at my friend Dolly’s place.

Going to Dolly’s place is always an experience and a half. The lady knows how to do lunch. In fact you’re lucky to get out alive after a lunch at Dolly’s.

I blame the intolerable 40 degree heat and the Sangria for a lot of what went down.

Dolly, Julie, Val and Patrice.

The first two glasses slipped down my dehydrated throat just a little too quickly. I’d eaten zilch for breakfast and had done five kilometres on the treadmill so it must have been the massive sugar hit that rocked my socks off.

Italian sausages

The retro prawn cocktails and Italian sausages with couscous salad were washed down with crisp Chardonnay then followed up with delectable tiramisu and an unidentified dessert wine.

Delicious tiramisu made by Julie

Dolly brought out the playing cards gifted to her by her daughter Mads. “Oh look, Pinky!” she said. “You have a royal flush!” 

Royal Flush!

And she wasn't referring to my rosy, broken capillaries either.
We played a few games including one where head gear was a necessary fashion accessory.

Flattering huh?

It wasn’t long before Dolly was struck by the urgent impulse to don her Stevie Nicks wig and hat.

Dolly channeling Stevie.

 Then she brought out the fake drinking boobs also gifted to her by the wicked Mads.

Novel boobs!

At some stage Scotto resolved that he too would make an excellent Stevie Nicks doppelganger and it was around that point I deemed he was having too good a time and sent him a hostile text from another room where I’d begun my steady descent into seedy belligerence.

Steven Nicks.

We took a taxi home and for some inexplicable reason I felt it imperative to pick a fight.

“I’m sleeping in the spare room,” I exploded when we arrived home. “Don’t bring me coffee in the morning because I shall not be speaking to you until Christmas Day.”
Now this is where I made my biggest mistake.

The spare room has a television in it but I don’t know how to turn it on and I certainly couldn’t trot back down the hall and ask Scotto how to turn it on because I’d just informed him I wasn’t speaking to him until Christmas Day.

I’ll just read my Kindle, then, I thought.

The trouble was I’d left my reading glasses in the bedroom as well.

The dogs had followed me into the spare room with tails between their legs. They knew Mummy and Daddy were fighting. Pablo began frantically scratching at the door to go back to his father so whilst swearing and cursing, I let him out. Five minutes later he was back scratching at the spare room door. This went on a few times before I roused on him and he crept under the covers, deeply traumatised by his alcoholic, pugnacious mother.

I found some inadequate reading glasses in my handbag (which was the ONLY thing I’d remembered to bring with me).

But I fell asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.

About an hour later I awoke, mouth as dry as a dead dingo’s donger and groped around for my bedside glass of water.

There was no water. Where the fudge am I? I thought in confusion. Oh that’s right, fighting with Scotto. I’ll show the b#stard.

What did he do again? I can’t remember… but it must have been something pretty bad. Gawd… I need to go to the toilet but it’s all the way down the hall and if I go I’ll disturb the dogs and they’ll start their infernal scratching again. And I’m so thirsty. Why the hell am I in the spare room on a single bed squashed between two dogs and Scotto’s sprawled out on the King size bed with the ensuite and a nice glass of water beside him. Why didn’t I insist he go to the spare room? Why is my head hurting? Who invented Sangria?”

I drifted off after a few hours of wondering how I was going to manage to keep up my promise of not talking to Scotto for the next ten days when I needed to ask him how to download that new Marion Keyes book onto my Kindle. Did this mean I wouldn’t be able to watch Carols in the Domain on Christmas Eve because I can’t turn on the telly? Also, how would I be able to tell Scotto what I want for Christmas? And should I tell him to cancel our holiday after Christmas? I don’t think we’ll get our deposit back. Maybe we could still go on the holiday and we just wouldn’t communicate for the entire holiday. I can be a stubborn little b#tch when I want. I’m sure I could do it.

It was about 8:00 am when I was awoken by Pablo and Celine licking my nose with their legs tightly crossed so I let them out to do their business.

Where's my morning coffee? I can’t move without my morning coffee. I thought morosely.

Why did I tell Scotto not to bother with bringing me coffee? Was I possessed by the spirit of some truculent martyr last night or something?
He’d already gone to work by the time I dragged my bloated bladder up to finally empty it and then gulped down three glasses of water.

Now I’m back in my bedroom watching the telly and witnessing the horrifying siege at Martin Place unfold and wondering how I’d feel if Scotto was one of the hostages in the Lindt café and I hadn’t apologised to him for being such a little shrew last night and how worried the parents, friends and families must be for their loved ones trapped inside.

So… I’ll say it now.

I’m sorry Scotto.