When we last "saw" each-other, dear readers, I promised to tell you a funny, if a little tiresome tale of fine cuisine, red wine and lots of laughs and happiness. Or so you might have thought, I imagine. Alas, the truth is far different, if a lot funnier, and I will try to share with you as many details as possible! Without mentioning the weekend or today's (Monday) morning, mind you. Not much to tell, anyway.
"It's only love", as a favourite singer of mine once wrote.
***
So, Thursday night's dinner. Did we meet the future Mrs. Picksby? Yes, we did. And if I was to ever imagine a proper bride for Mr. Picksby, it would definitely be her.
Fanny Munro.
A lady of approximately 35 years of age, schooled in all the fine manners of society and educated in a University, she was as pleasant and well behaved, as, unfortunately, she was dry and boring. Miss Munro came a bit later than her fiancé, blaming the delay in her arrival to traffic, then stripped her coat and handed it to Michael, as if he was to be her personal butler for the evening. Her greeting was reserved, her clothes - oddly old-fashioned. I noticed her looking me up and down, from the 10 inch heels of my leather boots, through the black skirt that barely reached to my knees, and the low neck dress, to my auburn hair ("An unnatural color" as Fanny so delicately put it) let loose around my shoulders. She made a face, that indicated her honest disapproval of my clothing, then gave Michael the same quick and estimative look, though it did not reach any higher than his tight black jeans. She pursed her lips and asked for the bathroom. We pointed her in the direction and went to rejoin the "lucky" fiancé in the dining room. Poor Mr. Picksby was already sweating and looking nervous.
Fanny Munro.
A lady of approximately 35 years of age, schooled in all the fine manners of society and educated in a University, she was as pleasant and well behaved, as, unfortunately, she was dry and boring. Miss Munro came a bit later than her fiancé, blaming the delay in her arrival to traffic, then stripped her coat and handed it to Michael, as if he was to be her personal butler for the evening. Her greeting was reserved, her clothes - oddly old-fashioned. I noticed her looking me up and down, from the 10 inch heels of my leather boots, through the black skirt that barely reached to my knees, and the low neck dress, to my auburn hair ("An unnatural color" as Fanny so delicately put it) let loose around my shoulders. She made a face, that indicated her honest disapproval of my clothing, then gave Michael the same quick and estimative look, though it did not reach any higher than his tight black jeans. She pursed her lips and asked for the bathroom. We pointed her in the direction and went to rejoin the "lucky" fiancé in the dining room. Poor Mr. Picksby was already sweating and looking nervous.
"I forgot to tell you something...", he started worriedly, but was interrupted by Miss Munro's high-pitched and exasperated cry for help. Michael rushed up the stairs to check what was happening, only to be greeted by another yelp and a sharp word, that I would not repeat in the pages of this blog. When he came down, caring a stressed Bast in his arms, he looked both irritated and entertained.
"Turns out, Miss Munro is allergic to cats. And dogs." He made a face. "And every other type of pet possible."
Now, what kind of person does not like cats, and dogs, and tortoises... and animals in general? The only other one I could think of is a short grumpy lady, who lives next door...
And goes by the name of Dorothea Picksby.
Letting out a deep sigh, I told Michael to lock Bast in the bedroom and then to sit down. I'd handle it. He squeezed my hand ever so gently and went to "get rid" of Bast for the night. I'm still not sure who was more unhappy for it - the cat or the husband. A few minutes later Miss Munro came back down and, after a hushed comment about dirty carpets and carpet cleaning, settled down into a chair next to her fiancé. No hand-holding, I noticed. No kisses. Just a brief and despairingly polite "Good evening, Picksby, dear". I mean, shall I start calling Michael "Mr. Halliwell, husband dearest" now? Imagine that! It might have been funny, if it wasn't so tragic!
The rest of dinner didn't go as planned as well, as it turned out that Miss Munro does not "consume" (her words, not mine) anything by the "bloody French", or having fats, or cheese, or... Well, food.
A photosynthesises for dinner, anyone?
The conversation did not go so smoothly as well, for Miss Munro was a woman who disliked or disapproved of many things, politics, sport and television being just 3 of them. We tried music, but she was not familiar with anything past Beethoven. Yes, imagine that. Michael mused about telling her that the 19th century is long past, but decided against it. Each one for themselves. Mr. Picksby, umm... being Mr. Picksby, did not say a lot the whole night (which lasted till 10:30, because Miss Munro did not find it polite to stay past that), but kept on acting all brotherly towards Michael, patting his shoulder, or squeezing it, or giving him little pokes (Michael's ticklish), which were if not uncomfortable, then... inadequate. Just like the Picksbies themselves, actually. Including the latest addition to their household.
The "goodbye" Miss Munro gave us was just as cold as the rest of her, and we were left with the impression she did not like us very much. And, probably, did not approve of Mr. Picksby's (brief) association with us. So, I figured we won't be seeing him any time soon.
As you could probably guess, when we let Bast out of the bedroom she'd made sure we'd pay for locking her away like a mere animal. Domestic cleaning, anyone? What could be better at 11:00 at night?
A warm bed and an even warmer husband under the blankets.
Alas, a housewife's work is never done!
But I'll worry over it in the morning.
(And so I did, by the way. And so I did...)
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