Read Online Coconuts and Wonderbras by Lynda Renham - Free Book Online
Authors: Lynda Renham
Ads: Link
dangerous.’
Dad laughs and squeezes mum’s knee. Oh gross. I mean, they are in their fifties for Christ’s sake. There is something almost pornographic watching your dad squeeze your mother’s body parts. Can’t he just peck her on the cheek or something?
‘That’s not all,’ says mother excitedly, getting up. Oh no, what now? Any news I had is going to be a bit mediocre after this. Shuddering with excitement she produces a brochure and drops it at the side of my plate.
‘Now don’t get upset, it’s only for a week.’
I feel the breath knocked out of me. Oh good God, have they gone mad? Their gas fire must be letting out some kind of toxic fumethat has totally scrambled their brains. Heavens, they really have no idea what they are doing. I may need to wheel them down to the solicitor to get power of attorney before they go completely gaga.
‘A naturist holiday,’ I stammer, pushing the brochure away with my little finger. God knows where they got the brochure from, and heaven above knows who may have handled it before them. They are going on holiday with a load of perverts. I wonder if I should call the police.
‘Come on darling, do eat. If you have been dieting all week you must be famished.’
Yes, well my mother always was encouraging.
‘You can’t possibly go on a holiday where people are naked. You’ll have to be naked. And won’t it be a bit cold, a bunch of nude old people climbing up Mount Kilimanjaro in the middle of winter?’
‘Don’t be silly darling. It’s for when we get home. It’s in Weymouth, and we won’t be going until later in the year.’
‘But you’ll be naked,’ I say again.
Mother nods and rubs her hands together excitedly. I push my chair back.
‘I won’t have it. What if the photos get on Facebook and what about Christmas?’
‘You said you wanted a quiet romantic Christmas with Toby, so we started to plan our bucket list, didn’t we dear?’ says mum, leaning seductively across the table and stroking dad’s thigh.
Christ, I swear my parents do it more than I do. Although at the moment everyone will be doing it more than I do, considering I am not doing it at all. I down half my glass of wine to drown my sorrows.
‘Yes, well we broke up didn’t we?’
‘What? When did that happen?’
‘Last night. I saw him kissing Serena Lambert.’
‘What a knob,’ says mother angrily.
Yes, a knob indeed.
‘I know, a real prick,’ I agree miserably.
‘Oh dear, and he seemed a jolly nice chap for an architect,’ chips in dad in his usual preoccupied way.
‘A journalist, you remember? He’s a writer.’
‘Oh, jolly good.’
Oh jolly hell.
‘Let’s not get maudlin,’ scolds mother. ‘Have more vegetables otherwise you’ll get constipated, and after dessert I want you to get me onto that bird thing. Everyone at the Health and Beauty club is on it.’
Sounds like a class ‘A’ drug. Maybe I should get on it too.
‘I think you mean Twitter don’t you?’
‘Yes, that’s it, and then I can chirp away.’
‘Tweet away.’
Good God, are people their age allowed near computers? It really ought to be illegal. Perhaps I should set up some kind of parental control. Otherwise, before I know it, they will have their gross nude bodies all over the Internet. What a thought! I can’t believe my parents are jetting off to God knows where, and over Christmas too. I debate telling them about Alex Bryant and his God-awful book when I spot it sitting on the coffee table. Dumbstruck, I point at it and splutter something incoherent, almost choking on my vegetables. My parents are not only abandoning me to go mountain climbing but they have betrayed me and bought the enemy’s book.
‘Oh yes, I meant to ask you about him,’ says dad, leaning forward to retrieve the book.
‘George at the bowls
Dad laughs and squeezes mum’s knee. Oh gross. I mean, they are in their fifties for Christ’s sake. There is something almost pornographic watching your dad squeeze your mother’s body parts. Can’t he just peck her on the cheek or something?
‘That’s not all,’ says mother excitedly, getting up. Oh no, what now? Any news I had is going to be a bit mediocre after this. Shuddering with excitement she produces a brochure and drops it at the side of my plate.
‘Now don’t get upset, it’s only for a week.’
I feel the breath knocked out of me. Oh good God, have they gone mad? Their gas fire must be letting out some kind of toxic fumethat has totally scrambled their brains. Heavens, they really have no idea what they are doing. I may need to wheel them down to the solicitor to get power of attorney before they go completely gaga.
‘A naturist holiday,’ I stammer, pushing the brochure away with my little finger. God knows where they got the brochure from, and heaven above knows who may have handled it before them. They are going on holiday with a load of perverts. I wonder if I should call the police.
‘Come on darling, do eat. If you have been dieting all week you must be famished.’
Yes, well my mother always was encouraging.
‘You can’t possibly go on a holiday where people are naked. You’ll have to be naked. And won’t it be a bit cold, a bunch of nude old people climbing up Mount Kilimanjaro in the middle of winter?’
‘Don’t be silly darling. It’s for when we get home. It’s in Weymouth, and we won’t be going until later in the year.’
‘But you’ll be naked,’ I say again.
Mother nods and rubs her hands together excitedly. I push my chair back.
‘I won’t have it. What if the photos get on Facebook and what about Christmas?’
‘You said you wanted a quiet romantic Christmas with Toby, so we started to plan our bucket list, didn’t we dear?’ says mum, leaning seductively across the table and stroking dad’s thigh.
Christ, I swear my parents do it more than I do. Although at the moment everyone will be doing it more than I do, considering I am not doing it at all. I down half my glass of wine to drown my sorrows.
‘Yes, well we broke up didn’t we?’
‘What? When did that happen?’
‘Last night. I saw him kissing Serena Lambert.’
‘What a knob,’ says mother angrily.
Yes, a knob indeed.
‘I know, a real prick,’ I agree miserably.
‘Oh dear, and he seemed a jolly nice chap for an architect,’ chips in dad in his usual preoccupied way.
‘A journalist, you remember? He’s a writer.’
‘Oh, jolly good.’
Oh jolly hell.
‘Let’s not get maudlin,’ scolds mother. ‘Have more vegetables otherwise you’ll get constipated, and after dessert I want you to get me onto that bird thing. Everyone at the Health and Beauty club is on it.’
Sounds like a class ‘A’ drug. Maybe I should get on it too.
‘I think you mean Twitter don’t you?’
‘Yes, that’s it, and then I can chirp away.’
‘Tweet away.’
Good God, are people their age allowed near computers? It really ought to be illegal. Perhaps I should set up some kind of parental control. Otherwise, before I know it, they will have their gross nude bodies all over the Internet. What a thought! I can’t believe my parents are jetting off to God knows where, and over Christmas too. I debate telling them about Alex Bryant and his God-awful book when I spot it sitting on the coffee table. Dumbstruck, I point at it and splutter something incoherent, almost choking on my vegetables. My parents are not only abandoning me to go mountain climbing but they have betrayed me and bought the enemy’s book.
‘Oh yes, I meant to ask you about him,’ says dad, leaning forward to retrieve the book.
‘George at the bowls
Similar Books
