Hope and Greenwood

Mr Greenwood is possibly the laziest husband I have ever had. His ex wife, 10 years after the divorce, felt the need to tell me that in 20 years of marriage he had never cleaned the windows. Well nothing has changed.

I say,

‘Have you considered the possibility of mending the big hole in the roof and the repairing the plaster in the en suite? Very soon I will be able to talk to the neighbours directly and whilst I like them I should not be revealed before 8am to just any Tom, Dick or Harry’.

He hears,

‘Merlot?’

I say,

‘Mr G have you considered popping to a shop at all as a can of Mackeson’s Stout, a Dairylea Triangle and a Ross’s pickled onion in no way constitutes healthy fayre’.

He hears

‘Push up bra’.

Miss Rosey Apple however has none of these problems.

Picture this, it is gale force 10 outside, the rain is lashing her windows and her curtains (one day I will tell to you the story of the 2 inch shrinkage) are closed to the elements. Miss Rosey Apple snuggles on the draylon to watch Jonathon Ross. Mr G. has called her at home just in case she doesn’t already know. Of course she knows fine well, this is a date with DONNY!

She has purchased Ribena and picked all the Blackcurrant jellies out of the Fruit Salad (Donny likes Purple things), the Kir Royale is on ice, her plum skirts are lifted coquettishly just above the ankle in case Ozzer can see her from inside the telly box. Perhaps he will come calling later to whisk her away to Salt Lake City for a love fest with the brothers.

Quel Horror the telly box goes blank, there is nothing, just fuzzy bits with Jimmy peering through the gloom like an audition for Poltergeist with teeth.

THE SATELLITE HAS GONE DOWN!

In a flash she knows what the trouble is. The oak tree in the garden has swayed its 100 year old branches in front of the dish. Quick as a groupie spotting a back stage opportunity at the Flamingo, Las Vegas, she has Mr. RA out to the shed to find a sharp implement. He dutifully ‘George Washingtons’ the tree with bloody great axe whilst the hurricane blows around his head, his frail body pelted with hail, his meagre chemise trailing Bryronesque-like in the howling gale.

Poor bugger.

It is only once the tree has bitten the dust that Miss RA becomes remotely rational. The wind has actually blown the dish off the wall and it is lying in next door’s garden.

He says, ‘I cannot tell a lie little wifey, I hate that Donny and his school boy looks, his cheeky chappy persona, the sweaty picture for May on your Official Donny Calendar 2008.’

She says, ‘Darling you are my hero, my Mr Rochester, come and nestle your damp head to my heaving breast, Donny and I are finished you are the only man for me, let us run away to Charlotte Town and drive for 5 hours before bathing with pelicans!’

He hears,

‘Push up bra’