The Shoe Princess's Guide to the Galaxy by Emma Bowd Read Free Book Online Page B

(Bangalore)
To:
        Jane (home)
Subject:
RE: Xmas Cards
 
We must send Xmas cards. What will Aunt Margaret say? J T
     
    OK. We appear to have a problem.
            You see, sending Christmas cards just seems to happen by magic in our relationship. Sort of like the sheets on the bed getting changed. And the black scum line in the bath disappearing.
            Hmm ... He’s seen me squat, butt-naked, giving birth to Millie – I think he can handle one more home truth, wife to husband: the Christmas card fairy is a little busy this year.
     
From:        Jane (home)
To:                Tim (Bangalore)
Subject:        RE: RE: Xmas Cards
 
Tim, I can’t believe I have to spell this out to you: I AM A ZOMBIE.
        In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m SO exhausted from caring for Millie 24/7 and doing the domestic run of the house, that I have the memory and attention span of a one-celled amoeba. I backed the car into a fence this morning, and put my mobile phone through a cycle of the washing machine. But all is OK – was doing 1 mile/hr in the car at the time, and the phone still works (Ha!). On top of this, I have tonsillitis. And you are in Bangalore, AGAIN.
        I believe the armed forces call it torture (or is it death?) by sleep deprivation. Cut me some slack, will you? I simply cannot do the Christmas cards this year. I’m sure people will understand.
        Jane
        xx
 
From:        Jane (home)
To:                Tim (Bangalore)
Subject:        RE: RE: RE: Xmas Cards
 
OK, if you feel that strongly about the bloody cards, why don’t YOU do them? I’ve attached OUR Christmas card list. You can do the necessary edits for this year – changes of address, births, deaths, marriages, divorces, trial separations, reconciliations, new boyfriends/girlfriends, sex changes (and no, I’m not being petulant; remember your dear Uncle Alan who became Aunt Ellen in 2005) – pretty standard stuff.
        And then write them – each night after work and in your lunch hour. Polish them off on the flight home from India, perhaps. I like to make sure that I write a personal message in each card – a little summary of the year’s events relevant to each person/couple/family. We normally send out about 60–65 cards.
        Don’t bother calling tonight, as I’m out at my team Xmas dinner. (Should give me enough time to calm down too.) J
 
PS. Millie misses you. Never thought we’d get so much use out of the ‘bonding board’!
Here she is: m,zs0–23., ,=c04n, r 9 j45i0–34
     
    I bid farewell to our trusty chauffeur, Javid, from Reliable Minicabs, and totter off around the corner in my favourite Patrick Coxes with pink-ribbon ties on the sides. My back twitches, but I ignore it and stride confidently along the pavement – Millie in front, baby capsule in one hand and nappy bag in the other.
            With each click-clack of my heels and swish of my skirt, I feel alive again. It’s great to be back. In decent shoes. In town. I really cannot stop smiling – how proud Clotilde would be if she could see me now.
            I kiss Millie on the top of her bobbing downy head. Nothing is going to spoil our night. Not Daddy and his festering festive Christmas cards. Not Mary sodding Poppins the health visitor sticking her gargantuan no-name trainers in our front door, asking why we haven’t been to her Birkenstock-wearing-placenta-eating new-mothers’ group yet. Not the fact that I look like an actress from an old Carry On film squished into my pre-Millie clothes, all rolls-of-fat-poking-through-too-tight-fabric five foot four of me. Not even your explosive poo and complete outfit change in the back of the minicab and accompanying £80 fine for loitering on a yellow line. No, my dear sweet little baby girl, this is our night – at The Cube. Your very first experience of a glittering West End restaurant – with your mum.
            And