Or during, rather. I’m still sipping my wine, which I put in a glass even though I felt like putting the neck of the bottle into my mouth and just not gagging, no matter what, in an alcoholic’s version of Deep Throat.
The Brewster has returned Chez Queenie and is currently running up and down the stairs talking to himself. He put a six pack in the fridge as soon as he came in though, so he’ll be sleeping near that and my plans to run naked around MY house this evening in the knowledge that I am alone (except for Justin the stoner downstairs who wouldn’t even blink as I streaked by, unless it was on a skateboard) are currently on hold.
Never mind, I am currently skidding through the lounge, butt-naked and hair flying behind me, in my mind.
Amazing what a few grapes, water, yeast and some Chilean peasant’s smelly feet will do to a girl’s mood.
And Himself is back on radar, after thirty hours of not answering his phone, (apart from a minute this morning) due to having to sort his life out.
Funny how women sort their life out on the phone and men sort it out by not being on the phone.
It wasn’t Queenie that he was avoiding of course. ‘No phone games’ is one of the Rules.
One of which Queenie has just broken. Well, the spirit of one of the Rules. Not the letter. That took her all of four days to figure out. She’s not a political maven for nothing.
Minor scuffle over the invisible communication wires due to an unfortunate choice of words that meant a potential scenario was presented as a fait accompli rather than as a topic for discussion and joint decision-making, which annoyed her no end. Queenie was not up for being mollified by some protestation of innocence on the matter. It’s been a long day and Service Canada are being typical Canadian public servants par excellence (why Queenie's countryfolk bang on about how great Canada is she will never know. She will go home with the Holy Grail of that at some point) and PsychoB is still here and Queenie’s TESL classes in the library are rapidly turning into SocialWorkersRUS. So she’s not in the mood for any slippage on the presentation front.
Plus we’ve been here before and we have to learn the Rules. So the minor tussle was followed by a long silence. Which was then followed by:
‘I’m not allowed to hang up on you, so is there anything else?’
‘No??? (Where is she going with this?)’
‘Okay. Bye so.’
Click.
That’ll show him.
Back to Athabasca…
He can fuck off if he thinks he’s going back to Athabasca.
Queenie means it.
And he can take the goddamn fish with him.
She spent half an hour this evening scraping fish poo off the bottom of the tank.
Time for another glass of wine.
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