There’s no point in trying to offer a precise description of her mass of friends. The following, though, should at least give you a rough idea and you can come to your own conclusions:
One afternoon the missus told me that two of her friends would be visiting that evening. This is her way of saying that she doesn’t want me at home when they arrive. Being a dutiful husband I removed myself to the local drinking establishment at least an hour before the estimated time of arrival of her associates.
Recollection of my forced attendance at the pub is more than a little hazy. However, I am able to clearly recall deciding to use the services of a home delivery outlet, that delivered a truly awful meal to my home earlier in the week, to kill two birds with one stone.
I ordered for delivery to my address: three twelve-inch pizzas with extra garlic, onion and anchovies; three meat vindaloos (rat? Road kill? Humanely trapped? Your guess is as good as mine) and six side dishes of bhajis.
It was my intention that all this food would be turned away with no payment being offered, as the women hadn’t ordered the food, and the good lady and her two friends would be suffering with hunger pains upon my return.
She used my credit card to pay for the delivery and not a scrap of food was left.
Simply put, my wife’s friends are heifers. If ‘Jabba The Hutt’ desired a partner, he would be spoilt for choice.
I have to say that my wife is in no way overweight, but I cant think of any of her female acquaintances that wouldn’t put a dent in a battleship’s deck. Indeed, I am happy to swear on my children’s lives that when she has more than six of them in the kitchen at any one time, my house tilts towards the east.
They all have an inherent dislike of men. Though, for some reason they all think, without exception, that Mel Gibson truly is the Supreme Being’s gift to women.
I once pointed out to a gathering of the heifers that Mel is, in fact, an alcoholic who has been accused of both making anti-Semitic remarks and committing more driving offences than the entire cast of Whacky Races.
To be fair to my spouse, she did put a halt to the proceedings after one of her friends came back with a rope.
Having raised the small matter of men, as incredible as it might sound, each and every one of this herd is married. To me, this defies all the known workings of the universe and trashes the principles of ‘law of averages’ and statistics, but most definitely supports Chaos Theory.
Their hobbies (other than slagging off husbands) include making cakes, jam and pickles, and talking about making cakes, jams and pickles.
Credit where credit is due though, the sale of these homemade delicacies raises an admirable amount of money for charity. Over the years they have developed an impressive and virtually faultless sales approach.
Every now and then, they set up a large marquee on the village green (free erection of the marquee is included in the hire price, but the service is always declined as the women enjoy hurling 50kg sheets of canvas at each other). Tables inside are then piled with mouth-watering goodies.
Purchasing by the husbands is compulsory and passers by are, well, press ganged into buying calorie-ridden nibbles at truly extortionate prices and then given a free cup of tea.
Over the years, there have been a number of complaints about their marketing methods, but on the occasions when trading officials and police have turned up, it has always been decided that, for the sake of casualty reduction, retreat is the preferred option.
One can’t really blame anyone for backing off. The day of the charity cake sale is an important time for these women; the very best tartan skirts are worn and make-up is applied (I do wish women over sixty would stop applying make-up. They simply do not have a clue at that age). It really is a breathtaking sight. In fact, it’s not at all dissimilar to some of the violent scenes in the film ‘Braveheart’.
Which brings us back to Mel sodding Gibson. I’m going to the pub.