Whilst in Derry t'other day with Miss Martha, her grandfather (my first husband) and his lady I got into a (sort of) conversation with some other lady. Y'know I nearly sort of hate to call her a 'lady'. I'd rather call her a 'woman' or perhaps a 'mad bint'. Anyways we got chatting as I sat outside Tescos while my first husband's beloved was in there shopping for the nappies that we left behind when we embarked on our 'day oot'. So - Mad Bint starts chatting to me. I was totally not in the mood as I had just checked my bank balance and was feeling rather worried and poverty-stricken. So we're having this banal conversation about the cost of Christmas and the crazy demands made by (her) grandchildren when Miss Marthas grandfather and his better half appeared,
Well, said the Bint. No need to ask you who this is. This is your daughter. She's your spitting image.
I smiled wanly as I wished her dead.
My first husband's partner is two years older than me. So not only does she look young enough to be my daughter, she also looks young enough to be the mother of a two-year-old child. It's my white hair. It must be! That or the Mad Bint is also half-blind and thoroughly drunk or medicated. This mistake might have made somebody's day but it certainly wasn't mine.
Isn't it wonderful how a drop of the cold, white stuff helps the look of a bunch of tatty old outhouses. Judy jumps with joy at the excitement of it all and Bonnie tries to keep up. Maybe she's wondering where her morning dose of steroids are? Meanwhile Paddy hopes that the snow is improving the looks of a tatty old dog. Afraid not old son. But where's Charlie?
There he is! Doing what he does best - lurking and pissing.
