How to Kill Your Husband (and other handy household hints) by Kathy Lette (7 ebook reader .TXT) 📕

I reeled back. ‘My husband told you that?’

‘Well, that’s what he implied.’

‘Did he now? Well, I’d just like to imply that I’m not that comfortable with premature ejaculation either.’

‘Really?’ Bianca, eyes glinting, made a note. ‘I’ll be back in a mo.’ She swept out to the waiting room.

‘It is not premature ejaculation! It’s what’s termed in the popular vernacular as a “quickie”,’ Rory said defensively, surfing into Bianca’s office on a wave of self-justification.

‘Ha! You’re so premature, Rory, that last night I wasn’t even in the room! Who were you fantasizing about, by the way, when I walked in?’ I demanded.

‘Perdita Pendal, if you must know.’

‘Perdita?’ It was his turn to score a direct hit.

‘Yes. In her prissy little pinstriped suit.’

‘Ugh!’ I recoiled. ‘I can’t believe you’d let that woman have sex in my bedroom!’

‘There’s only one way to deal with a premature ejaculator,’ began Bianca, trying to regain control.

‘Have your orgasm first?’ I suggested crossly. ‘And anyway, isn’t it too early in the therapy course to be having this conversation?’ I said to really annoy her.

Bianca shook her head at her wayward pupil, before insisting that I help Rory master the art of the slow build. What this meant, apparently, was logging on to the London School of Striptease Website of Empowerment. My heart sank. Funny, isn’t it? How one woman’s empowerment is another woman’s sleazy degradation.

Trying new things sexually is not my favourite pastime. For one thing, it creates terrible eye wrinkles caused by puckering up into a squint and shouting, ‘You want me to do WHAT?’

This feeling was reinforced when Bianca demonstrated the Peek-a-boo home pole-dancing kit which she suggested we purchase from her, complete with choreography manual, fake dance money and a garter to tuck it into. ‘The Peek-aboo dance pole goes up or down in sixty seconds,’ Bianca assured us.

Story of my life, I sighed dismally.

I’d pushed so hard for Rory to come to marriage therapy and now, as I watched women gyrating on Bianca’s computer screen, all I felt was a profound sense of desolation. Bianca was adamant that she could lay us down beside the still waters – all we had to do was be more patient with each other’s desires. And she was right. Any slight irritation I had from then on was soothed by simply burying my face in the pillow for a few hours and screaming and screaming and screaming.

I was beginning to think that the only tip a marriage counsellor should give is: NOT TO HAVE ANY MARRIAGE COUNSELLING UNDER ANY BLOODY CIRCUMSTANCES WHAT-SO-BLOODY-EVER.

13. Unhappily Ever After

Part of my job as Head of Year Six was to create a ‘happy work climate’. Unfortunately, in most staffrooms the work climate is damp with high wind approaching. Having to check the teacher roster first thing didn’t do much to brighten the day. If there were any absences I had to assign the duties to other disgruntled staff members. Teachers break into two groups – the Sneerers and the Okayers. The Chalk and Talk teachers nearly always fall into the sighing and sneering ‘I suppose so’ category.

But Perdita, her smile cement-rendered onto her face, now had a permanent excuse. ‘I would, but I’m just soooo busy going over your work,’ she said today, in answer to my request to cover playground duty at break. ‘I know it’s a little embarrassing to have your classwork checked by a fellow member of staff, but Claude – Mr Scroope – did insist we make it inspection-proof. And it’s best to keep the old boy happy. As I’m a people person, I’m willing to help you out.’ She gave a long-suffering sigh.

The minging staffroom, with its rusting chrome sink and threadbare armchairs, is situated directly behind the children’s dining hall. Positioned as it is at the back of the cafeteria, it’s nicknamed ‘the Bacteria’. Well, the Bacteria was now buzzing with activity as teachers milled about making last-minute cups of tea and coffee before the bell rang. Perdita’s reply had been loud enough to ensure maximum overhearing. The graveyard of apple cores in the cluttered ashtrays, the grape-cluster skeletons, the glove of banana peel on the floor and being belittled in front of my colleagues – this must be why I became a teacher. I just couldn’t resist the glamour of it all.

I drank in air languid with kids’ wet shoes and marmite sandwiches, feigned a shrug, then diverted the curiosity of the other teachers by sharing my latest batch of biology homework. ‘Benign is what you can’t wait to be when you’re eight,’ I read aloud, to mild tittering.

But inside I was seething. I had begged Mr Scroope to reconsider, but obsessed with the impending inspection, he just kept repeating his order, like a Dalek. ‘The Inspectors are coming. Perdita must supervise your lessons. The Inspectors are coming.’

And so my free time after school was spent in my rival’s classroom which she had cluttered with cuddly toys, gonks, ornamental flowers and ‘amusing’ signs of the type sold in shops called Bitz or Nick nacks. Red pen in hand and dotting all her I’s with smiley faces, she excised all the frivolity from my class notes, replacing fun phrases with obfuscatory jargon about ‘building team commitment to action’ and ‘clarifying individual roles and responsibilities’. How deftly this Hackademic turned my simply worded educational aims ‘meeting yesterday’s challenges tomorrow’ into meaningless drivel about aiming to ‘grow skills in speedy problem-solving ideas’ and ‘barrier breakdowns’. Whatever the hell that meant. The woman’s course notes were so convoluted that I would just grasp the end of one sentence, when the other end would wriggle away like a slippery leg of an octopus.

Fed up, I tried to get out of going over my science notes. ‘Don’t worry,’ I told Perdita gaily. ‘I’m planning a more practical than theoretical approach. I’m taking my class on an excursion to the Science Museum.’

Perdita’s professional manner cooled a few degrees. ‘But the Science Museum