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How To Write Yourself Out of the Good Books

I was doing so well with Gareth's parents. I think they're legends so I've tried hard to win them over with my Novelty Accent™ and a framed photo of the firstborn for their Xmas present. But then this morning Gareth and I were lazing in bed…

(and just lazing, mind – no funny business. Holidays were made for lounging in your scratcher, drinking endless cups of tea, listening to the radio and declaring, "I give you the gift of fragrance" before dropping farts with a strong note of festive Brussels sprouts.)

… when the doorbell rang.

"You get it, it's your flat."

"You get it! I don't know where my pants are."

"I don't know where mine are!"

"But you'll be able to find yours quicker."

"Fine!"

I stomped to door and picked up the intercom phone thingy. "Hello?"

"Hello, Shauna?"

My stomach dropped. It was the voice of Gareth's mother.

I flew into the usual unthinking panicky spinning-in-circles routine, pressed the door entry button and bellowed, "GARETH! It's your MOTHER!", with no regard for the intercom handset thingy nestled under my jaw in the perfect position to beam my voice outside into the crispy air where the potential mother-in-law stood.

"Shit! Shit!"

I couldn't hear approaching footsteps. Had I scared her off? I peered through the frosted glass of the front door but couldn't see a thing. I pressed the door entry button again just in case.

"GARETH! It's your MOTHER I tell you!" I fumbled with the lock, hauling the door open, "GARETH! GET YOUR PANTS ON!"

And there she was on the doorstep. She's barely five feet tall so she'd slipped in under my eye level. I couldn't figure out what kind of smile she was wearing. Bemused? Bewildered? Disturbed?

"I'm not staying, can you just pass this on to Gareth, it's a case for his new camera. How about I come back tomorrow and catch up with you both, say, 4.30?"

"Sounds great!" I bleated as she scurried off. "4.30 it is!"

Cannae wait.

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About Shauna Reid

Ahoy there! I’m an author, copywriter and old school blogger. I love telling stories about life and helping my clients to tell theirs. Find out more about me and how we can work together.


14 thoughts on “How To Write Yourself Out of the Good Books

  1. oh! I missed the prospective MIL sentence and had to go back and reread. But, yeah, otherwise… HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH

    A similiar thing happend to me, Shauny.

    Husband I and were busy in the bedroom and my parents and *4* siblings decide to drop in and say HI. Apparently they knocked, but we didn’t hear. So what did they do? They just CAME ON IN. (We knew you were here, dear, your car was in the driveway.)

    We heard the front door open from the bedroom and shot out of bed and into our clothes like watching a p o r n o backwards.

    I had to act all nonchalant and a c c o m o d a t i n g , the whole time just feeling squishy and wanting a shower.

  2. I h a d t o t y p e l i k e t h i s b e c a u s e M T B l a c k l i s t d i d n t a p p r e c i a t e p o r n o o r a c c o m a “d a t i n g.”

  3. okay, after reading that definition it seems it’s the wrong choice of word. how about POTENTIAL? oh man. anyway, that’s not the point of the entry. it was supposed to be about the pants. THE PANTS!

    btw, mb: scratcher = bed.

  4. Oh dear. Heeheehee! Could have been worse … could have been ‘Get your novelty taipan-shaped g-string on!”, I suppose!

    Shauny, as one who had a ‘potential’ M-I-L become a ‘real’ M-I-L, take heed of my warning that you must be on constant, complete, and utter best-behaviour full-alert at all times. Even if the M-I-L likes you, and is a fine person (as I am sure Gareth’s mother is!), your glowing halo can and will slip off your head and ring your neck at any moment under her suspicious (it’s in their very motherly nature) gaze.

    For instance, I tried so darned hard, for years, to make my then potential M-I-L like me, until the time I accidentally hissed/bleated “WHY DON’T YOU JUST PISS OFF!” at her son in David Jones department store. I had made the mistake of becoming so darned comfortable in her presence that I forgot she was even there.

    That was in 1997, and I think I’m still regarded as the uber-bitch that swears at her golden boy (well, second son, so ‘silver boy’) in department stores.

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