Read Online Diary of an Unsmug Married by Polly James - Free Book Online
Authors: Polly James
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leave.
‘No, he isn’t,’ says Greg. ‘Molly and I have no idea what it is to be appreciated.’
Normally this would be all too true but, when Max and I get home this evening, we find that we have run out of toilet roll – thanks to a bizarre papier mâché experiment by Josh – so Max has to make an emergency trip to Sainsbury’s.
He brings a bunch of flowers home for me and, although he forgets to take the ‘reduced’ sticker off, it’s the thought that counts. Isn’t it?
A warm glow lasts for all of ten minutes, until I show Josh, who claims that husbands only buy their wives flowers when they are feeling guilty about something, in which case – if I’m about to be put out to grass in favour of Annoying Ellen – I suppose I may as well send Johnny the photo he keeps asking for. With any luck, it’ll distract him from wanting to know whether I’ve found my diary yet, seeing as I don’t even want to think about that. Talk about exhibitionism!
At least there isn’t any photographic evidence of the Science block escapade, so things could be worse. Not that there’s much photographic evidence of my existence, either. There are virtually no pictures of me in the family photo box at all, though there are hundreds of Max and the kids – all taken by me, of course. (If I died, within a week my family would be completely unable to recall what I looked like.)
So, given that I’m not exactly spoilt for choice, there’s no alternative but to select a picture in which I am gurning furiously, during a face-pulling contest I had with Josh and Connie over Christmas. I’m almost too embarrassed to send it, but then I realise that Johnny won’t have a clue whether I am genuinely hideously disfigured or not, so I’m looking forward to seeing how he’ll cope with framing his response.
I seem to be becoming far more ‘fun-loving’ (ghastly phrase) since starting to correspond with him. I wonder if that attitude will survive the rest of the week.
THURSDAY, 10 JUNE
Greg is wounded today or, rather, his ego takes a knock-out blow. I’ve just started opening the mail, when Mrs Nudd comes bursting into the office like a madwoman, presumably thanks to the so-far unidentified idiot who left the security door on the catch.
She’s already reached my desk before I’ve had a chance to react, and is waving a letter in my face while screaming at the top of her voice: ‘What the f*ck do you mean that there’s nothing more you can do for me?’
Then she starts throwing files and chairs around, and ends up holding a letter-opener to my throat. (Why do the nutters always go for my throat? Is it because I am almost a midget?)
Greg is surprisingly butch (for him). He attempts to take hold of Mrs Nudd from behind, but then she grabs me and hangs on tight, so Greg tries a little harder and manages to yank her backwards, though she still doesn’t let go of my neck. When he eventually succeeds in throwing her off-balance, she dislodges me from my chair and we end up in a heap on the floor.
‘Phone the police!’ says Greg, while manhandling (or possibly boy-handling) the still-struggling Mrs Nudd towards the door.
She calms down a bit when she hears me reporting the assault, and Greg seizes the opportunity to push her over the threshold and slam the door – but not before she’s hissed, right in his face, ‘You are the ugliest f*cker I’ve ever seen in my life.’
Then she goes off into the sunset to pick yet another fight with her daughter-in-law. How on earth does she expect us to make her son ‘see sense and get a divorce’?
About forty minutes later, a police constable saunters in; says something about being unavoidably delayed, and then goes away looking relieved when we can’t be bothered to press any charges.
In retrospect, this may have been a mistake, as Greg is too traumatised to do any work for the rest of the day. He just keeps wandering off into the men’s loo and staring hopelessly into the
‘No, he isn’t,’ says Greg. ‘Molly and I have no idea what it is to be appreciated.’
Normally this would be all too true but, when Max and I get home this evening, we find that we have run out of toilet roll – thanks to a bizarre papier mâché experiment by Josh – so Max has to make an emergency trip to Sainsbury’s.
He brings a bunch of flowers home for me and, although he forgets to take the ‘reduced’ sticker off, it’s the thought that counts. Isn’t it?
A warm glow lasts for all of ten minutes, until I show Josh, who claims that husbands only buy their wives flowers when they are feeling guilty about something, in which case – if I’m about to be put out to grass in favour of Annoying Ellen – I suppose I may as well send Johnny the photo he keeps asking for. With any luck, it’ll distract him from wanting to know whether I’ve found my diary yet, seeing as I don’t even want to think about that. Talk about exhibitionism!
At least there isn’t any photographic evidence of the Science block escapade, so things could be worse. Not that there’s much photographic evidence of my existence, either. There are virtually no pictures of me in the family photo box at all, though there are hundreds of Max and the kids – all taken by me, of course. (If I died, within a week my family would be completely unable to recall what I looked like.)
So, given that I’m not exactly spoilt for choice, there’s no alternative but to select a picture in which I am gurning furiously, during a face-pulling contest I had with Josh and Connie over Christmas. I’m almost too embarrassed to send it, but then I realise that Johnny won’t have a clue whether I am genuinely hideously disfigured or not, so I’m looking forward to seeing how he’ll cope with framing his response.
I seem to be becoming far more ‘fun-loving’ (ghastly phrase) since starting to correspond with him. I wonder if that attitude will survive the rest of the week.
THURSDAY, 10 JUNE
Greg is wounded today or, rather, his ego takes a knock-out blow. I’ve just started opening the mail, when Mrs Nudd comes bursting into the office like a madwoman, presumably thanks to the so-far unidentified idiot who left the security door on the catch.
She’s already reached my desk before I’ve had a chance to react, and is waving a letter in my face while screaming at the top of her voice: ‘What the f*ck do you mean that there’s nothing more you can do for me?’
Then she starts throwing files and chairs around, and ends up holding a letter-opener to my throat. (Why do the nutters always go for my throat? Is it because I am almost a midget?)
Greg is surprisingly butch (for him). He attempts to take hold of Mrs Nudd from behind, but then she grabs me and hangs on tight, so Greg tries a little harder and manages to yank her backwards, though she still doesn’t let go of my neck. When he eventually succeeds in throwing her off-balance, she dislodges me from my chair and we end up in a heap on the floor.
‘Phone the police!’ says Greg, while manhandling (or possibly boy-handling) the still-struggling Mrs Nudd towards the door.
She calms down a bit when she hears me reporting the assault, and Greg seizes the opportunity to push her over the threshold and slam the door – but not before she’s hissed, right in his face, ‘You are the ugliest f*cker I’ve ever seen in my life.’
Then she goes off into the sunset to pick yet another fight with her daughter-in-law. How on earth does she expect us to make her son ‘see sense and get a divorce’?
About forty minutes later, a police constable saunters in; says something about being unavoidably delayed, and then goes away looking relieved when we can’t be bothered to press any charges.
In retrospect, this may have been a mistake, as Greg is too traumatised to do any work for the rest of the day. He just keeps wandering off into the men’s loo and staring hopelessly into the
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