A Tale of Two Puddings (I.P.)

A Tale of Two Puddings! (I.P.)

That cow! She stole my man! Her name should have been Jolene like that auburn haired trollop in Dolly Parton’s song. You know the one...’whose beauty is beyond compare with ivory skin and auburn hair.’ Well, Christa was just like her, no man was safe. If they took just one look at her ivory skin they seemed to lose all sense so I got dumped and he moved in with her. But I thought he would soon come scuttling back because I didn’t think she would be able to keep him satisfied…in the culinary department! But would you believe…she can cook! Now that’s not playing by the rules is it? Knowing how Marcus loved his food I thought he would soon be back but it turns out she’s a domestic goddess. Now that’s not fair as it would seem the scales are tipped in her favour. Even that’s not strictly true because I may be a trifle heavier than her but only because of keeping Marcus satisfied…in the food stakes. Well, if you’re cooking something special for your man it would be churlish not to have a bite yourself now, wouldn’t it?

Well anyway, the fact is she’s got him now and I’ve just got to get on with it but it’s hard. I wouldn’t mind betting it’s hard for her as well…in a way that it never was for me! But that’s the advantage of Auburn hair and ivory skin. Mouse brown and pinkish reddish skin doesn’t carry the same level of attraction does it no matter how you gloss it up?

I cried when he left. I’m not afraid to say I begged, I pleaded and I can still feel the stinging humiliation of him shaking me off like when your leg attracts the unwelcome attention of a dog as it starts humping it with gusto. I tried to hold onto him but he left me lying there on the floor devastated. I wouldn’t have minded but it was a slate floor. Could have got pneumonia but did he care? Did he heck as like! Not now he’d got Goldilocks! I just hope the three bears get him and the porridge chokes him. And the bed breaks under the strain. Oh no…not if it breaks because they’re at it. On second thoughts…Might be worth disguising myself to gain access and then I could saw a leg off or summat. Of course, by that I mean the leg of the bed… although…

Anyway, when I am out and about in the town, people who know us are always coming up and asking me how Marcus is, knowing full well he’s moved in with the Goldilocks Trollop, she of the big boobs, even bigger bum and the ginormous iced buns! Apparently she loves cooking and by the sounds of it she’s every man’s fantasy woman, a wonderful cook in the kitchen, clean in the house and in her habits and a filthy dirty whore in the bedroom! It’s a good job I’m not the sort of woman to be bitter. No, I know when I’m beaten. If he would prefer to have a filthy dirty whore than a good clean living woman, like my self, then so be it, I am powerless to deter him from his headlong rush towards his own decline.

No, I will make a dignified exit from his life. Oh no, he’s already stole a march on me there too because he’s already gone. Bastard! But I am not bitter. I will not be turned into some screaming fishwife who shouts at them in the street. No! Oh! Yes! I forgot but I did only do it the once and I didn’t think anyone heard me or even noticed so I don’t know how it got to be front page news in all the papers. I suppose being the UN’s Special Envoy is what made the difference. He’s always got paparazzi following. Wonder how she’ll take to that. She won’t be able to pee without it being reported with full colour pictures sent all round the globe although due to the size of her backside it will mean the photos can only be printed in the broadsheets. The Tabloids are too small to cater for a backside the size of a small country. But actually, I think that is exactly what he likes about her because now they are a matching pair and because I’m not in the least bit bitter I wish them well. No, that’s not quite right…if there’s a wishing well anywhere near or there abouts then I will cast silver to its depths and make a wish that the pair of them fall down it.

Then, would you believe, one Sunday lunch time I’ve got guests coming to dinner so I decide to cook a traditional roast beef dinner with all the usual trimmings as well as Horseradish Sauce and one of my very special Yorkshire Puddings. Yorkshire Pudding is really my signature dish. They are what I am known for. Anyway, I’m just putting the finishing touches to the table when the front door bell goes and I think this will be my guests. I open the door and to my surprise there is my errant husband looking very sheepish standing on my doorstep.

“What do you want?” I growled, without the least show of bitterness.

“I just wondered what you were having for lunch today, that’s all!”

“What possible interest can that be to you?”

“I heard you were having Tony and Miranda and Toby and Stella over for Sunday lunch.”

“You are remarkably well informed.” I said, a touch sarcastically.

“I wasn’t keeping tabs if that’s what you think. It’s just that Kofi Annan happened to mention it at the last meeting for UN resolution One Hundred and Eighty.”

“Sounds like a darts match,” I said

“Actually, you’re not far wrong there as it involves two third world countries that have resorted to violence by traditional methods.”

“What do you mean...traditional methods?”

“Well, they are throwing darts at one another.”

“Oh, and I bet it started with one woman’s husband running off with some auburn haired trollop leaving behind a trail of destruction and a pile of dirty washing, with the dignified abandoned woman trying very hard to find solace in the company of friends.”

“I don’t think there are many auburn haired ladies in Southern Bastarduduland and I have never seen any while on my extensive travels across the Fucku Desert”

“Obviously you’re looking in the wrong place. Try looking in the region of Fuckofmydoorstep in the Wanker Peninsular! I feel sure you will find any number of auburn haired trollops there.”

“Could the dignified, abandoned but reasonable woman really be reasonable and forgiving to someone who had come to his senses and realised he had made a terrible mistake?”

“Why, what’s gone wrong with Goldilocks?” I said, somewhat bemused.

“It’s her Yorkshire puddings they’re as flat as pancakes. Not a bit like yours which rise so majestically. Take today’s miserable effort, she served up a beautiful roast dinner but instead of a nicely risen Yorkshire Pudding the thing she took all hot and steaming from the oven hadn’t risen at all as it was a flat featureless mess the size of a large plate and to my mind completely inedible.”

“Are you telling me she couldn’t get it up?”

“Yes,” He said, sheepishly.

“Come in” I said, “You’re just in time to stir the gravy!”

End