Hell Hath No Fury Like A Sister Scorned

It was a Thursday that started like all the others. In fact, much the same way as all my weekdays are identical to their predecessors. Chickie was straining and I was cleaning. Then the phone rang.

I don’t know what my Sister doesn’t understand about my hatred of high pitched, squeally phonecalls but I should also mention that she still asks me whether I take sugar in my tea after thirty years of my taking one sugar in my tea. I’ve never faltered, waivered or deviated from the single granulated spoonful policy and yet, still she asks.

As she squeaked down the phone something about her friends, the paper and slap cheek, I was getting the impression something had ruffled her feathers. And indeed something had. Page 54 of our local paper. To be fair, I didn’t know that any family photos were going to print or that there seemed to have been a little accident with the red pantone on Aunt Sally’s, sorry, I mean, my Sister’s cheek area. If anyone's interested, with a little persuasion, I'm sure she'd consider Panto if the right role presented itself (Widow Twanky perhaps). Please see attached photo of her in her usual state of gorgeousness which I'm hoping will redeem me.

To Meerkat and Brother-in-Law, I appreciate neither of you realised, when drunkingly posing in a cartoon mask and goggles, they’d be enjoyed publically but I think this would be a good time to reflect on the wonderful unexpectedness of life rather than focusing on it being my fault.

Scared that Sister, Meerkat or Brother-in-Law may be wanting a word with me, I thought it best to get out the house. Off I zoom zoomed to the supermarket. Unable to undertake even the most mundane of tasks without incident, I left my handbag hanging on the trolley as I zoom zoomed home again. Half way home, I zoom zoomed back again.

I pulled up alongside the trolley park and my handbag. I parked inconsiderately and ran around the car to collect my bag. In my head, the Benny Hill theme tune was playing. Da da dern dern dern dern da….. Back into abandoned vehicle, check cards, cash – all there. Check hair, reposition kirby grips. Check spots, pick spots. As I looked up at the car I’d blocked in, the driver I didn’t know was there smiled back at me, having patiently watched and waited for the stupid spotty woman to do all of the above so he could finally exit the car park.

To those of you who’ve asked. Yes, Accountant really did buy me a wildlife book for Valentine’s Day and, no, I don’t know why.