My Secret Wish List. PENNY JORDANЧитать онлайн книгу.
friend—okay, so I didn’t tell Rosie when my son said that Rosie’s schoolteacher niece was giving boys at school hands-on sex education lessons. But how was I to know exactly what he meant? I was as shocked as everyone else when news broke in the papers that she had run away with twelve-year-old pupil she was supposed to be giving extra after-school coaching? Anyway, all the fuss has died down now, and Rosie’s niece has moved to another part of the country. She’s got a job there teaching at an all-boys boarding school.
I am a good mother.
Well, I have tried to be a good mother.
Not entirely all own fault that daughter has turned out so odd—probably takes after my mother, and therefore definitely not my fault.
Am an optimist—true. Look at the way am fantasising about new sexy neighbour!
Am good with money—well, I would be if I had any!
How many is that?
Could put down loads more good points, but am too selfless to want to bore on about own virtues!
Think what you would do if you won the lottery.
Would pay off enormous mortgage, for a start, and son’s student loan. Might even have droopy boobs fixed after all.
Whilst I was thinking, Derek rang to say he’d accepted an offer for the house. The only thing was there isn’t going to be as much equity as he’d hoped—but the good news is that once all the expenses have been deducted (apparently he had forgotten about certain unpaid bills), there should still be enough for me to put down a deposit on a small flat. And after all I wouldn’t need anything bigger than that, really. In fact small bedsit would suit admirably … Also v. generously said it would do me good to get a job, if I could get one, that is, at my advanced age!
I am trying to look for job. Rosie says new hypermarket is looking for shelf-packers and is favouring ‘mature personnel’ because they can read the labels on things and don’t spend all day on their mobile phones texting messages that say things like ‘RU there—txt me!’
But I would need a car to get there, since is out of town. Keep checking local paper for suitable work, and suitable flat, but so far haven’t found anything.
STILL haven’t completed first exercise for life-coach—i.e. supply list of ‘goals’—but this morning have doctor’s appointment to check how am doing with HRT.
Doctor’s surgery full of usual dreadful examples of humanity at its worst—the receptionists—whilst poor unfortunate patients cower in dread of incurring their wrath.
I give my name and creep past to find a seat. My doctor is running forty minutes late with her appointments.
Pick up a magazine—a Cosmopolitan that’s twelve months out of date. There’s an article inside: ‘Thirty things you should have done by the time you are thirty’. Start to read it.
1 Had sex in ten different positions
2 That do not appear in the Kama Sutra
3 With ten different men
4 Consecutively
5 Concurrently
6 Snogged your best friend’s brother
7 Snogged your best friend’s man
8 Snogged your best friend’s father
9 Snogged your best friend
10 Got off a speeding fine by using feminine charms
11 Have on at least two occasions woken up in a strange bed unable to remember how you got there or with whom
12 Smoked a joint
13 Had sex in a public place
14 Ended a long-term relationship and discovered it was the best thing you ever did
15 Travelled round the world three times
16 Seduced a younger man
17 Told your mother that she could never be mistaken for your sister
18 Had a religious experience
19 Had a surreal experience
20 Spent twenty-four days scared to death you might be pregnant
21 Spent twenty-four hours crying because you weren’t
22 Had sex at work whilst on phone to boss
23 Had sex with boss whilst on phone to partner or mother
Et cetera.
Realise miserably that have lived totally boring, unachieving life, since I haven’t done any of them.
Sneakily rip page out of mag. Good joke to show friends. Then realise that elderly woman next to me is glaring disapprovingly and looks as though she is about to summon frightening headmistress of a receptionist.
Relief is at hand. (There’s an item about that too, but too rude for me to read.) Finally hear my name called.
My doctor looks like a TV presenter—all glowing skin, thick soft hair and a look in her eyes which says oh-God-not-another-dreary-middle-aged-might-have-been-but-wasn’t.
Tell her my HRT has made me put on two stone. Has also failed to inflate boobs, as described in magazines by confident women MPs. Ask if she can explain mystery as to why for every two hairs that were on head I now only have one, whilst disgusting black wire has started growing on chin.
(Jacki says it could be worse—you can at least have extensions on head. She says too that Afro-Caribbean plaits work almost as well as a facelift at pulling skin tight.)
Doctor looks dubious. Starts to ask me about my diet and my sex life. I try to explain both are total non-starters, but she is already on computer providing repeat prescription. Tells me to think about having a holiday.
Go home and start to clean out kitchen cupboards.
Instruction from life-coach—Remove all unnecessary clutter from life.
Find almost-empty bottle of Christmas pudding brandy—shame to waste it…
Busybody Do-Gooding neighbour from three up knocks on open back door just as I am throwing now empty bottle into rubbish box. Am sitting on kitchen floor surrounded by ‘to throw out’ stuff. See from her expression that she has totally misjudged the situation.
Try to tell her that I am simply following the advice of life-coach and discarding unnecessary clutter from my life—also upholding housewifely thrift of late mother-in-law—never throw away food or drink.
Try to assume control of situation and stand up to give self more authority. But brandy much stronger than I thought. Kitchen spins! Floor becomes a Mount Everest-type incline impossible to stand straight on. Cling to sink whilst neighbour asks if I have ever thought of joining AA.
Am so offended that I deliberately pretend not to understand. Just because have thriftily drunk brandy does not make me an alcoholic!
Tell her that Derek has co-opted car, and so guaranteed home start provided by Automobile Association not really applicable. Talking of car reminds me that I had decided to get son’s bike out of garage and use. V. trendy, and will look good on ‘things to achieve’ list. Can see self now, riding fearlessly into town. Will buy a crisp white shirt and some jeans and will look totally together and Oxbridge, my hair gleaming in the sunlight and my skin glowing with health.
Drift into beautiful brandy-induced daydream and can see myself looking sexily academic. Sexy new neighbour will see me and fall instantly and passionately in love!
Only one problem. Seem to remember son’s bike one of those wheelie things. Suddenly also see hideous mental image of myself in blue cycling shorts to match poor