3 comments/ 2005 views/ 0 favorites The Trouble with Pre By: AJPhynn Author's Notes: This is a light hearted romp through, and a bit of a rant at, the way that advertisers are torturing our language, which, by the way, is English English. There is little, if any, sex involved, so if you are looking for a stroke story, there are plenty of others that will meet your needs. A few explanations may be helpful to those outside the UK. Essex is a county just to the north east of London and its girls have a reputation of being brash, in your face, heavily made up and adorned with bling, and who are dedicated to the contemporary club scene. TOWIE is a TV show dedicated to the exploits of Essex girls - its full name is The Only Way is Essex. If Essex is at one end of the cultural spectrum, Glyndebourne is at the other. It is a classical music (predominantly opera) festival held every summer in the grounds of a large private house near the south coast. Expected dress for men is Dinner Jacket and for ladies, it is an evening gown. Dinner can be taken there, or if you picnic, then a hamper from Fortnum's is "de rigeur". With that said, over to you. ~--~--~--~--~ There was nothing particularly inspiring in my wardrobe: which was probably appropriate, because I wasn't particularly inspired by the dinner that I had been invited to. At least this time, Sian had been honest. Yes, there was going to be a single lady there, but no, this was not set-up. Said lady was as leery as I, but she was good fun, and given that Jack had invited people she didn't know, fun was otherwise going to be in short supply. "And, honestly, that's really why I'm inviting you as well. I'll need some support, otherwise it's likely to be a very, very tedious evening! You can be very entertaining when you put your mind to it", she continued, "and Pixie has a very similar sense of humour. The two of you could be quite a double act!" "Sian," I growled ... "Don't worry, Richard, I learnt my lesson," she laughed. "This is just a genuine invitation to dinner. I know you can't turn down my cooking," she chuckled. "Mmmm... All right, I'll come then," pathetically being pushed over. "Beef Wellington - for old times' sake?" "God, has it been that long? Too passé now. I've moved on," Sian teased. "As long as it's none of that Nouveau stuff - all decoration and no substance!" "Oh no - much better than that! I've got hooked on to Hestor Blumenthal and his ideas of experimenting with all sorts of different tastes: I've perfected a truly mean version of his scrambled egg ice-cream." I swallowed hard. "Oh look, my diary is telling me that I forgot that I have a very important appointment that evening. I'm doing a tasting on old shoe leather - it sounds infinitely more tasty than your concoctions, so I am going to have to pull out!" "Oh, sod off, you idiot," Sian laughed. "I know you and your appetite." She paused. "And at least it seems that you haven't lost your sense of humour since we last saw you." Her voice became more concerned. "I know that you've been hiding yourself away, but the messages were that you had been seen out and about, and I was hoping that you might be feeling up to being sociable again. If you aren't up for it, don't worry, I understand - but I do hope you can come. It's been too long, and Jack and I really do want to see you again." "Thanks, Sian, but I'll come. I need to get off my arse again and get out. I'll have to go shopping first though." "What? Your clothes were always out of fashion - they're probably back in by now!" "No. I need to get a hospital sized pack of indigestion tablets," I threw back laughing. "Bastard! 7.30 on Saturday week. Just bring yourself, don't worry with any wine. Jack's gone as experimental with his wine as I have with my cooking. See you!" And she put the phone down before I had a chance to come back with some pithy retort. But she was right. I did need to get out. Working from home with no daily companionship gave me cabin fever at times and I wasn't a great one for going out to bars and clubs. Personal ads gave me the shivers: "WLTM Male 50+, N/S, GOSH with view to...". EeuucchhH! And as for online matching sites, Christ, everyone's at it. "Find the special someone who loves as much as you do." Newspapers, classical radio stations, even popular science magazines, are all promoting their own "super special" matching sites, with their own "super special" filling for the blanks in the ad. Having done the Myers-Briggs test as part of a job application, I knew that there were some parts of my psyche that I was quite happy not exposing on a public forum! So if I were lying, what did that say about the respondents? No thank you. I prefer to handle things myself. If the right opportunity comes up, then it comes up. I'm really quite happy in my own skin, and after all these years, and the odd kicking from life, I think I know myself pretty well. I've learnt to say 'No', so why should I still be so leery about being set up? Let me explain. ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ As you have probably realised by now, I am single. Divorced is actually the check box I tick on those damn application forms and product surveys. I have been divorced now for nearly 20 years. It wasn't one of those "Bury the Bitch/Butch" type of divorces: we just drifted apart as the kids grew. My working abroad for long periods certainly didn't help matters, and our incompatible interests meant that when we were both in this country, we still didn't spend that much time together. I love sport (participating, and not just watching) and hate Amateur Dramatics; she was the total opposite. There are plenty of other stories here on the theme of "Opposites Do/Do Not Attract (delete as appropriate)" and this is not going to be one of them. Suffice to say that, in my view, they don't. Anyway, our divorce was quite amicable, and we remain friends, even now, despite (or maybe because of) what happened next. After a brief hiatus, a couple of short flirtations and some 'few-night' stands, during which I learnt that there was a huge difference between marital sex and non-marital sex - one of the main ones being that it is a lot more enjoyable when you can actually see your partner - things between my ex and I had settled down to the point where she started pushing her friends my way. And one of them happened to be a tall red head with tumbling curly hair that fell half way down her back, and a bubbly personality that was always exciting and laughing. Now, I have always had a thing for red heads - the more vibrant the colour the better, as far as I am concerned. So it was a while before I took in the rest of her body. A decent pair of boobs, and a trim waist; legs that looked better in slacks or under a long dress than on display, but hey, you can't have everything. That hair just had me drooling. Oh yes, and grey eyes. Hooked? Line and sinker! It wasn't long before the banter turned flirtatious and the odd 'double entendres' that were dropped into the conversation to test the water became more frequent and less subtle. By the time I flew off on a business trip to the US, they were blatant. That they had turned into single 'entendres' was confirmed on my return. She met me at the airport, and when we took the lift to the 7th floor of the Car Park at Heathrow's Terminal 3, I assumed it was busy and that was the closest place she could park. But when the lift door opened, the car was sitting in splendid isolation as far from the lift as you could get. I turned to look at her. "Worried about hitting something?" I asked as the door closed behind us. "No, just wanted some space," she grinned. She slid my hand which she was still holding into her coat. "I didn't think you were quite ready for an audience for a welcome home fuck," she continued as she pressed my fingers through a very damp patch of pubic hair and into her slit. "I thought this would be a good time to turn words into action." The last word got swallowed as with one hand she grabbed the back of my head and pulled me in for a full tongue kiss. Her other hand undid the buttons on her coat. When the last one was undone, she retrieved my fingers from her pussy, sucked them clean and started walking across the floor to the car, her coat flapping open around her. I was rooted to the spot. Hell, it hadn't been that long ago that I had progressed from darkened rooms to being able to see what I was actually doing. This blatant exhibitionism was another quantum leap for my mind to get around. My cock, however, had no such reservations. When she turned round to see where I was, holding the coat wide open, it ignored the 8 hours of cramped torture in the back of the plane, and just leapt to attention. "Like what you see?" she asked as she turned round and flounced (there is no other word for it) across to the car. I hurried after her as best I could, hampered by a suitcase and a raging erection. We got to the car at the same time. She went round towards the passenger door, and I followed, putting the case down by the back seat door. She pulled me into a passionate kiss, pushing her tongue deep into my mouth. Her hands were working on my trousers. As soon as they were loose, and had dropped to my ankles, and she had pushed down my briefs, she let me go. She pulled the coat aside and draped herself across the bonnet of the car. "Now, fuck me!" So I did. I lifted up the tails of the coat and draped them across her back, and plunged straight in. God, she was hot and wet. Even if the door to the lift had opened, or if a car had come up the ramp, I wouldn't have been able to stop. Neither of us was going to last long - we were just too excited - and we didn't. We both came together, and neither of us was quiet in our release. There was no one else on the floor to hear us, and if the sound did make it to another floor, then so what - I doubt anyone would come to investigate! As I pulled out, she turned round and came into my open arms. "Well, that was some welcome home present!" I laughed. "Well, we were going to make love at some stage soon, so I just thought we should make the first one memorable." "It was certainly that - I won't forget this in a hurry." "I hope you won't forget it at all!" she quipped. "Now we had better get home: we can repeat this evening, and this time, I'll get to look at you when you come!" I leant down to gather my briefs and trousers. On the way down, I gave her clit a quick lick which sent a tremor through her (and yes, the carpet did match the drapes). The juices that had leaked out of us when I pulled out had made a small puddle on the floor, but at least we wouldn't have to worry about clearing it up. There are some benefits of screwing outside, I thought. As I put my case in the boot, she slipped on a pair of knickers "don't want my coat to give people the wrong impression" and settled into the driving seat. I would have been in no good state to drive home after the flight, and with the added activity, I was asleep by the time we had reached the ground floor. That episode pretty much set the tone of our relationship. Sexual aggression, and the more chance there was to be seen, the more aggressive it was - but only if those in a position to see were total strangers. As I gradually came to realise, there was no way she would risk being regarded as anything but an upright, well behaved and modest Catholic girl by her local peer group. The joke about the stains on her coat was only partly in jest. After the ersatz vanilla of my marriage, this was pure excitement. Sure, we were the model middle-class, sober couple when in company: we were never invited to any partner swapping parties, that's for certain. I sometimes wonder if they exist beyond story-tellers' imagination. There were still limitations. She wouldn't let me come in her mouth, and neither of us had read "Anal Sex for Dummies": using butter, a la Marlon Brando, just seemed too gauche, so the one attempt remained just that. Not surprisingly, we took a lot of trips to other parts of the country in those early days. Ever wondered why those spiral staircases in castles curve clockwise as you ascend? The text books will tell you that it allows the defenders full use of their sword hand as they attack the aggressors, whose right hand is cramped against the central spine of the stairway. Bollocks! It's an easy right hand grope straight up the skirt of the woman walking up the stairs in front of you. Get the right grip, and the knickers come straight off as she continues up the stairs. If you take my advice, though, it's probably best not to try the same thing with the skirt until you get to the top - too easy for her to trip and fall back, using you as the cushion to soften the fall. Go somewhere a bit off the beaten track, and you can really let the exhibitionism rip. A quick fuck at the top of one towers with the now skirt- and knicker-less partner, followed by a photo shoot of her naked body walking across the castle keep, or posing against the castle wall - hands not coyly hiding boobs and pussy as one might expect from a stolid middle class lady, but actively playing with them - all with a leery and seductive grin. Inevitably, this was all followed with yet another rambunctious fuck in the middle of the castle ward before retrieving our clothes and heading off for a well-earned lunch at a local pub. (If you are going to follow in our footsteps, I would suggest not doing this at one of the English Heritage or National Trust managed sites! There are plenty of unmanaged castles in the Welsh Marches.) Throughout all this, I had never fully moved in with her. Because of my divorce, I was renting, but she had done well out of her own divorce, and had a decent sized house in one of the better areas of our town. Obviously, I spent a lot of time there: the odd week night turned into most week nights; the occasional week end turned into every other weekend. Until finally, we arrived at that great sign of "togetherness" so loved of the middle class - the DINNER PARTY!! We started hosting those as well. "Head in the Clouds", "Walking on Air" - you're all familiar with the clichés. It takes an outsider to knock a sense of reality into the infatuated. In this case, it was three insiders. My children refused point blank to be near me if she was going to be around. Go to her house on their weekend? No way. Lots of the LW stories on this site involve a burgeoning relationship between divorcees being 'managed' by the children of one or other adult. Often commentators deride the author for implying that anyone under the age of consent can be so Machiavellian. Noooo... Children learn to manipulate their parents within minutes of being born: they just get more astute about it as they get older. Recognise, also, that most children are extremely caring and protective of their parents, and you start wondering just who is looking after whom? And if they have been raised to be reasonably confident and to have their own opinion? You will get it - from both barrels, and on rapid fire! And that is precisely what I got. With their pretty constant sniping, the rosy tint in the glasses started to fade. I started to realise that almost all of the social occasions were of her making. Even when drinking in the bar after a cricket match, I realised that her constant presence at my side was not because of companionship, she was making a statement: "I'm allowing him to be with the lads". The straw that finally shattered the glasses (terrible mixed metaphor, sorry, grammazis!) was a suggested trip to Venice: it's been an ambition since I was young. When I got back from work the following day, I was presented with an almost complete itinerary of what we would be going to see, for how long and where we going to eat. Oh, there were a couple of gaps that I could fill in, but 'I thought it would save time to plan it all out' madam was in control - and don't you forget it! As you can imagine, there was no trip to Venice. There was a blistering argument, slammed doors, fists thumped on arms and chest - even bites (thank God she didn't watch boxing, or she might easily have followed Tyson's example). I know that red-heads have this reputation for a fiery temper, which is really unfair, because there are plenty of women out there with really bad tempers whose hair is a different shade of bottle, but, in this instance, the stereotype was on full display. When that didn't work, it was the tears and the apologies. Like others who have written here, there is that yearning to forgive and go back in these situations. The memories of the good times burn brighter than the swirling grey clouds of the bad times of anonymity. But like giving up alcohol or smoking, it has to be all or nothing. In this case, it was a complete withdrawal: batten down the hatches, don't answer the phone, don't open the door. And, like thousands of others before, you re-emerge into public life only to get pissed off with your friends when they ask how you could have been taken in, been so gullible. And you're only pissed off because you've been thinking the same thing yourself, and the only answer you can come up with is that, basically, you were an idiot, letting your little head rule your big head - but that's not something you can really talk about among the professional classes at a dinner party, is it? And you ask yourself, was I that shy when I was growing up? Did I have my head in my books so much that I ignored life? Why couldn't I see what everyone else saw? Hell, what WERE the signs that they saw? Were they written in some sort of ink that is only visible under UV lighting - like the patterns on flowers that are visible to bees but not to humans? And then, to preserve a little self-respect (and sanity), you come to realise that being a shit is gender neutral. People who are committed to getting the relationship they want will go out and get it: it doesn't matter whether they have a pair of tits and a pussy or a pair of balls and a cock. They bait the line, hook the mark and reel him/her on in. If it means using others to push your prey into the trap, then that's what they'll do too. But, if you're really lucky, some one (or three) will be there to cut the line just in time! That's what my ex-wife came to realise, too: she had been used too. She's never tried to set me (or anyone else up) again. And, as you can tell, it's also why I have an almost rabid phobia about set-ups! ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ The reminiscences faded, but at least they had served the purpose of reinforcing my "I will not be set-up" mindset. They had not, however, helped me decide what I should wear, and I was still staring vacantly into my wardrobe. Without too much agonising, I grabbed some clothes that seemed to go together, and which, I thought, were sufficiently up-to-date that one of the more casual TV presenters would have worn them, and got ready to leave. I called a taxi: if the evening was going to be as bad as I imagined, I would be having more than just a couple of glasses of wine! Jack met me at the door and looked at his watch. "Damn, only 15 minutes late! I had you pegged for at least half-an-hour." He sniffed the air. "And unless you've taken to drinking aftershave, I don't even detect any alcohol. Double damn!", he grinned at me and pulled me into a big bear hug. "It's great to have you back and out and about, Richard", he whispered fiercely in my ear. As he released me, he whipped his head round, saving each of us from seeing the moisture in the other's eyes. "Sian," he called, "he's here," and turning back to grin at me again, added "and you win on both counts, sod it!" The Trouble with Pre Sian dashed down the hallway and threw her arms around me as well. The flowers which I had brought, and which had somehow survived Jack's bear hug, this time took a real battering. She leaned back a little, and looked from eye to eye. "You OK?" "Yeah, I can't sit there moping all day and feeling sorry for myself. As I said, I need to get out again, and you and Jack are the best place to start. Just don't say anything, OK?" "Of course not. I've just said that you've been busy and out of contact for a while." She gave me another kiss, and another tight hug. Words were not necessary. "You know where the loo is; come through when you're ready. I'll go and try and rescue these." I should explain. After my experience with the Bitch from Hell, it had taken a while to settle back down. I met up with Mary, and we had a great time for two years before the stomach pains she had started suffering from turned out to be cancer. When she died last year, Sian and Jack had been among those few who were there to see me through it. Those of you who have been unfortunate enough to have been in those circumstances will know exactly what I am talking about. Once they had determined that I wasn't going to waste away, but needed alone time, they just kept out of the way. I was sure that there was some network that kept a weather eye open, just in case, and Sian's comment on the phone had confirmed it. Now, it was time to take another step out of the dark. I washed my eyes, checked my hair and ventured out to join the others. Jack put a champagne flute in my hand, and made the introductions: Arthur, a golfing partner, and Julia, his wife; Jack's accountant, Jerry, and his wife, Roberta; and Pixie. Julia reminded me a little of a young Barbara Windsor, small, but not quite so top-heavy. Roberta was pretty nondescript, Pixie was anything but. She didn't have the pointy ears that her name implied, and her hair that was long and flowing, rather than being in a bob, but otherwise her name suited her to the ground. Little snub nose, a generous mouth, medium height and slim, long fingers and a firm handshake. Casually, but very well, dressed. That her long flowing hair was going grey spoke of someone completely comfortable with who she was. And there was further evidence in her eyes. Undisguised crow's feet in the corners and an unwavering appraisal directed back at me. Definitely, her own woman! A line from Hotel California: "This could be heaven or this could be hell" flashed through my mind. However, Sian had invited her fully aware that I was still emotionally a bit frail, and so I really doubted that it would be hell. "Richard, nice to meet you in person after all Sian's comments," there was a slight Welsh lilt to her voice, "but," she went on as she looked down at my clothes and then back up at me, "she was definitely right when she said not to expect 'haute couture'!" Her eyes had a teasing glint, and the crow's feet turned out to be laughter lines. I went with the flow. "What do you mean?" I replied. "The last time I looked, I saw one of the presenters on TV wearing something just like this!" "Ah, but when was the last time you looked at a television? Five, ten years ago?" The laughter lines had deepened, and a big smile took any hint of a slight out of the question. "Shit, I suppose I had better get rid of that old Black and White TV, then, hadn't I?" We both laughed and raised our glasses in mutual acknowledgement that this was all in jest and turned to join the others. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sian give a big sigh as she went out to the kitchen. Maybe she hadn't been as confident how it would all work out as I had assumed. The conversation turned to generalities, who does what - that sort of thing. Arthur, "don't you dare call me Daley", was a used car salesman. In fact, he must have been quite a good one, as he owned a chain of garages. He had only recently had the time to start playing golf again. By knowing the right people, and showing the right sort of appreciation, he had found himself suddenly ("and quite unexpectedly") at the top of the waiting list at Jack's club. They had since been drawn together in the monthly medal and had immediately hit it off. "We are now regular partners, but Jack keeps taking my money off me, the bugger." Jack laughed. "Too easy, Arthur, just too easy. Don't tell me you would turn down any easy money from those mugs that buy cars from you." We all laughed: Arthur loudest of all. "I know Jack, look at how much money you paid me for Sian's car! Why else do I let you keep playing me? I have to let you get at least some of it back!" It was going to be a good evening: I could sense it and really started to relax. Possibly a bit gauche for Sian's taste, but at least it wasn't going to be boring. Julia, inevitably, was from Essex - a fact I had probably deduced from the amount of gold around her neck and on her fingers. She just looked after "all ma boyz, as", and here she gave Arthur an excruciatingly loving kiss on the cheek, "he works so hard for me that I don't 'ave to." To be fair, there may have been plenty of gold, but the orange perma-tan was missing, so maybe there was some hope. Jerry, was ... well, he was just Jerry, the 'grey' accountant. (I do love these stories, you can hit every stereotype going, and get away with it!!). If you ever saw John Major's puppet in Spitting Image, you'll know exactly what I mean. I couldn't quite work out why they had been invited. Jerry had possibly found a good tax reduction plan for Jack and this was the pay-off. Roberta, "Bertie to my friends," made sure that everyone knew how difficult it had been to find an evening when they could get out. Her Amateur Dramatic society was rehearsing for their new production: the performances were to be at the Hall next month. She, of course, was the female lead, and it was SO exciting, because it was the first time she had had the honour. "Sian is going to die for this," I muttered under my breath. They may not be pointy ears, but there was nothing wrong with her hearing. Pixie leant towards me. "I take it you're not a fan of AmDram, then?" "Understatement of the year!" I whispered. She looked at me, and there was a definite mischievous look in her eyes. "Don't worry. This is going to be fun." Turning back to the group, she waited for a pause and said, "Oh Roberta, that sounds fabulous. I think these local groups are so interesting - the way they interact, and get on. You must tell us all about your fellow members. I'm sure you've got lots of stories to tell us." I looked askance at Pixie. We were saved from imminent boredom by the dinner gong. I exaggerate: it was just Sian telling us to shift our butts. We shuffled through to the dining room and to our assigned places at the table. Dinner party protocol - where would we be without it? I found myself between the two female guests, and opposite Pixie, who was between the two male guests: husbands were not opposite wives - except for Jack and Sian who were at the ends of the table. But with 8 people, and the host and hostess at the ends of the table, the male / female /male ... progression never works, does it? The first course was already on the table. Sian hadn't been joking when she said she was now into Hestor's cuisine. Cold purple soup with a blob of ... clotted cream? A lot of furtive glances around the table, and a huge smirk on Sian's face. "Beetroot Gazpacho with Pumpkin Icecream". Jack was obviously in on the joke: he too was smiling. The rest of us were looking at each other to see who would be brave enough to take the first taste. It reminded me of one of those old childhood games where the winner was the one who came last: in this case, the winner would be the last one to pick up the spoon, and dip it into the bowl. Finally, with an "Oh Sod it! Sian, if you poison me, I'll never talk to you again," Pixie stuck her spoon into the ice cream, and lifted the spoonful of the soup towards her mouth. With a scowl at Sian, she closed her eyes, opened her mouth and deposited the food there. We could see her tongue moving the soup around, letting her palate absorb the tastes. She screwed up her face, hunched her shoulders and swallowed. "Interesting..." she looked across at me. "Go on, don't be such a wuss!" I took my own spoonful, and gingerly tried it, trying to look like a judge on Masterchef. As soon as I had ostentatiously gulped down the mouthful, I reached into my pocket and brought out a packet which I put on the table in front of me so that the label was directly facing Sian. "I told you I would need them," I said. Sian just threw back her head and howled. "I told you you were a bastard, Richard - just you wait!" She picked up her bread roll and made as if to hurl it at me. The rest of the table looked at us in complete bemusement: even Jack looked confused. I was smiling from ear to ear, happily taking another mouthful of the soup, Sian was chuckling away and all the while, the packet of indigestion tablets just sat there on the table ignoring everything that was going on around it. Once everyone realised that there wasn't going to be a bread fight, and noticing that neither Pixie nor I looked to be suffering, they all started to eat. Once you got used to the different textures and the odd colours, it was quite delicious. Sian had done a really good job creating her own version of one of Blumenthal's recipes. As everyone settled down, and tucked in, Sian explained my joke about the tablets, promising me that the next time I came to dinner, I would get my very own special meal of mixed shoe leather all served up as an Irish Stew - which again only caused looks of incomprehension from the others. Julia thought it was "absolutely laaaaaarvly" and asked Sian for the recipe. "I'm gonna give it to yer Mum and Dad the next time they come over," she told Arthur. Arthur, thinking either about the state of the kitchen after Julia's attempts at making it, or, if she did succeed, quite what her father would do when the bowl was placed in front of him, suggested that may be this was Sian's own secret recipe and she wouldn't want to share it. The beseeching look in his eyes as he looked at Sian when he said this was a clear cry for help. "I would need to show you, Julia," Sian replied. "It's not that straight forward and took me quite a while to get right. But, if you really want to, the next time we can both find an afternoon free, you're welcome to come over and we can make it together. Then you can try it out on Arthur and see what he thinks." Arthur's expression turned from one of gratitude to one that expressed very clearly what he would think of it. Somehow, I didn't think that Beetroot Gazpacho and Pumpkin Icecream was going to figure on the dinner menu in their house at some point in the near, middle or even distant future. The plates were cleared, and the main course placed on the table, along with the accompanying vegetables. "Salmon en croute", ventured Sian, in response to my raised eyebrow. "I know you're a complete softy for pastry - and, before, you ask, the pastry is a straight forward, ready made, out of the packet job, as it always is, so no smart-arse comments, and the salmon was straight from the fish counter. Now, just EAT IT!" she added with a glare. "Didn't we have this last year at Glyndebourne, Arthur?" Julia asked. While the implications of the question went straight over one person's head, five sets of eyes swivelled around to look at her, astonishment writ large on all faces. Dreadful things, stereotypes, aren't they? "Takes me every year for my birfday treat, don't you, luvva?" she continued, smiling broadly at him. "I really wanted to see Ronaldo as I've never seen it, but the dates clashed with our cruise. So we went to see La Traviata. I can't remember how many times we've seen it, 'cos I luv it so much, but I can watch it for ever: it's so magic." While Jerry just carried on eating as though nothing had happened, Roberta looked disbelieving: disdain visibly dripping from her nose like a piece of snot. Her middle-class pomposity didn't allow for Essex women to like anything so high-brow as the AwPERA and she clearly didn't believe a word Julia had said. Pixie and I just stared at each other in disbelief, and to cover my own confusion, I raised my glass to take a long drink. "Arthur's such a philistine," Julia continued. Caught mid-swallow, I started coughing as some of the wine went down the wrong way. I couldn't help but wonder if the description of an Essex-based user car salesman as a philistine was a tautology or not: it certainly wasn't an oxymoron, I was sure of that! Through the tears streaming down my cheeks, I could see Pixie struggling to contain a fit of hysterical laughter behind her serviette. "Well, he is," said Julia, slapping my back. "If they didn't have those surtitle fings, he wouldn't 'ave a clue what was going on. I try to make him listen to the CD before we go, but he always cries off, saying 'e's playing golf with Jack." Arthur just looked down at Jack. "Want me to teach you the finer arts of opera and bel canto next time we are on the course?" he smirked. Jack at least had the grace to blush slightly. Giving Jack the evil eye, she turned on Arthur. "As if you'ld know, luvva! I 'ave to keep nudging you to keep you awake: they don't like it when you snore!" "I should imagine they don't - probably not in tune" Pixie remarked, still trying to regain her composure. "Was it any good?" "Seen better," she said. "Christoyannis was great, but it was all a bit wooden fer me. I did like the modern costumes, though, that was fun." By now, I was staring openly at Julia. She turned to look at me, and burst out laughing. "Your face! You need to shut yer gob or that salmon's gonna jump right out! You think just 'cos I'm a good old Essex girl, I don' know what 'culcher' is, don't you? You should stop watching TOWIE and get out more." Sian gave a very unlady-like guffaw, while Pixie no longer pretended not to laugh and was giggling. "Carol, she's my best mate, we goes to Covent Garden at least once a monf during the season. Anyway, she's lookin for a man to get her claws into and I don' mind givin' up my seat for your 'culcheral' enlightenment. Now shut yer gob, I told you." What could I do? I just burst out laughing and most of the rest of the table (you can work out the exceptions for yourself) joined in. "Julia," I said, "you really are something else! I think I'm in love with you!" We high-fived (yes, I know it's very infra-dig, but this had turned into something very unlike the usual dinner party!) "That'll teach you to judge a book by its cover, won't it?" chimed in Pixie, looking across the table at me. "Well," drawled Sian, clearly loving Julia's put-down, "as his autobiography is the only book he's got, I guess he's got an excuse!" My host and hostess were going to pay for this humiliation, I muttered to myself. Being the good hostess that she was, Sian tried to draw the ever-silent Jerry into the banter. "What do you think, Jerry?" "Have you really written your autobiography?" Jerry asked me across the table. "You must have led a frightfully exciting life." Sian and Jack just bellowed out in laughter. "Well, yes, you could say that," said Jack when he had composed himself a bit, "it's one of those plain cover ones that they keep on the top shelf out of the reach of innocent arms!" and collapsed in laughter again. Squirting Chilli oil up his nose was beginning to look like a reasonable payback. "That's anover fing," Julia was clearly on a roll. "I can never reach those mags. Arthur and me really enjoy them, don' we luvva? I have to get one of the assistants to help me. It's real embarrassing to 'ave to ask. It's discrimination against us short people, that's what it is. There are laws against discrimination aren't there - well they should enforce 'em." Anyone looking into the dining room just then would have thought that someone had drained all the water out of a fish tank. I looked at Arthur who just sat there po-faced, and without a glimmer of embarrassment or unease. I turned back to Julia and stared at her. Just as I was about to turn away, I caught a slight upward curl to her lips. "Damn, Julia - you're good! No, that's wrong, you're far better than just good!" I said, shaking my head and bursting out laughing. "Gotcha all, didn't I?" she gloated. Pixie just looked at her in total admiration. "You don't sell Arthur's cars as well, do you?" she asked. The twinkle in her eyes lit up the room. "Who do you fink taught 'im?" I had been laughing so much that my sides were hurting, and it was almost quite painful to finish the salmon. This was most definitely not your usual, suburban dinner party! While we all tried to settle down, and regain some composure, Jack quickly made the rounds topping up glasses while Sian cleared the dishes. As Sian started serving desert, a choice of a chocolate roulade or "tarte tatin", Pixie picked up the earlier conversation with Roberta. "So tell us, what pay are you rehearsing for?" "Bedroom Farce." "Ayckbourn?" "That's right. I play Jan." "Interesting casting: how's it all going?" Pixie enquired. I too found the role slightly out of character for the person Roberta seemed to be, but perhaps the talent pool at her group wasn't that large. "Oh, really well," Roberta enthused. "We start our dress rehearsals next week." I turned to look at Jerry. "How do you feel about your wife kissing another man, Jerry?" Jerry looked a bit flustered by the question, but whether that was because of the subject or just that someone had actually asked him a direct question, I couldn't be quite sure. "Well, it's only acting, isn't it? It doesn't really mean anything, does it," he said. "Are you sure?" Pixie chimed in. "I read quite a salacious short story about that play." "Oh no, the play's not dirty at all," replied Roberta. "I know, I've seen it before. But the story I read was more about what went on around the play and in the Drama group - that was the salacious bit. It was really quite suggestive in parts! 'I Never Heard the Comma', that's what it was called. I bet Jerry's read it, haven't you, Jerry?" It was a good job that she had turned to look at Jerry and hadn't seen the surprised expression that appeared on my face as she named the story. If Jerry had seemed only a bit flustered before, now he looked downright shifty. "No, can't say I've ever heard of it," he quickly replied, but the growing glow to his cheeks had nothing to do with the wine we had been drinking. Both Pixie and Roberta noticed, and it was a question of which of them was going to get in first and make Jerry squirm even more. Jack, being the perfect host, decided to leap in and save his accountant from any further blushes. "You can't leave it there, Pixie! Where did you come across it?" adding the emphasis intentionally. "Oh, it was on one of those short story sites on the web." I decided to stir the pot a bit. "If it was salacious, do you mean one of those that you have to sign in to, Pixie? You know, 'confirm that you are over 18 and don't have a nervous disposition' type of website?" She didn't bat an eyelid, just batted it straight back at me. "Yes. Probably one of the many you've got as a favourite bookmarks," she replied with a smirk. The gleam in her eye confirmed that battle had been joined! "Quite possibly," I replied. "And just how many have of those have you got bookmarked, then?" The Trouble with Pre "Oh, enough to keep me from getting bored. And from your reaction earlier, I know that you've read the story too!" Little, if anything, seemed to slip past her. "Several times," I replied nonchalantly. Her eyebrows lifted. "You sad bastard! It wasn't that good!" "Charming! It didn't fare too badly. Anyway, I was proof-reading it." "Ha! What, are you one of those volunteer editors?" The others at the table, apart from Jerry who was still looking down at his plate and glowing gently, were following the conversation as though watching a match at Wimbledon. Julia decided that this would be a good moment to jump back in and 'clarify' things. "Pixie, is this one of them smutty sites that I keep telling ma boyz not to go to?" "Well, let's just say it's not an opera digest, so probably!" she said grinning. "And, anyway, Richard, you haven't answered my question." "What?" Her glare told me that she knew I was prevaricating. I dissembled, waiting for her to take a drink. "No. I wrote it," I said in the best blasé tone I could muster. The three faces opposite told quite different stories. Pixie was both spluttering on her mouthful of wine and laughing at the same time - not a happy combination for a face to have to cope with. Jerry had turned crimson with some shades of grey nervousness creeping in - a sort of facial sunset. Arthur had obviously come to some sort of conclusion, probably helped by Julia's rather dirty giggle (I warned you she was quick on the uptake), and raised a quizzical eyebrow. Since neither of the men sitting on either side of Pixie seemed able to help her out, Jack went round to pat her back, and to use his serviette to clean up the mess that she had made. I grinned at her. At least when Julia had surprised me, I had managed to keep my mouth, and my nostrils, shut! "Soooooo," Sian put forward into the silence that followed, "we appear to have an author in our midst. I don't think we've ever had that honour at dinner before." The lack of any form of admiration in her look warned me about what was to come, so I decided to get in first. "Well more writer than author," I said. "It was only a short story." "And looking at your corduroy jacket, chinos and loafers, I bet it was a smutty one, wasn't it?" That evil gleam was back in her eye - although there was a small crinkle in her lips that I took to be the beginnings of a smile. "Oh it was really quite fun," said Pixie. "Tell me Roberta, is your AmDram group like the one in Richard's story?" "Like what? I've never read any stories about the play." Roberta clearly had no idea what the conversation was all about. Jerry's squirming, however, confirmed that he did. "Well, how can I put this," Pixie mused. "In depth one-on-one dress rehearsals, dress optional, type of thing." Roberta looked totally askance. "What do you mean?" She turned to me. "What's she going on about, Richard? I don't understand. Is she taking the mickey?" "Pixie's being a bit naughty," I replied, glancing across the table with a warning glance. I had seen Roberta's wide and teary-eyed look and realised she was close to losing it. Compared to the other three women around the table, all of whom had smutty minds and a sense of devilment, Roberta was a total innocent. I decided to tone it down. "Bertie, don't worry about it. It was all made up. It was just a fictional story about an Amateur Dramatic group that were more interested in swinging than acting." "Swinging?..." Oh God, how on earth did Sian and Jack end up inviting these two? Was Jerry threatening to expose where Jack's financial skeletons were buried? No wonder Sian had insisted on some protective cover. I looked across at Pixie. "Don't look to me for help. You wrote it, you explain it," she said with a huge grin plastered across her face. I swear that all women have the same sadistic streak in them as cats have. I knew then that I had been right all those years ago when, as a very young child, I thought that cats were the females and dogs were the males. Never mind any of that Mars and Venus bullshit! "Let's just say, Bertie," I said with a sigh, hoping that using her preferred name would make the words more meaningful to her, "that if whoever is playing Trevor wants to do more than kiss, or suggests additional rehearsals away from the rest of your group, you just say 'No', OK?" I looked hard at her until she nodded her agreement. "Isn't that right, Jerry?" Thankful that the conversation seemed to moving away from him, Jerry agreed wholeheartedly. "And, Bertie," I continued, "I suggest that you never use the word swinging without referring to the seat you were sitting on at the time. Otherwise, you could find yourself in very deep water without a life belt!" It was tempting to suggest that she read some of the stories on the web site that Jerry clearly could introduce her to. She would then understand the particular meaning of the word swinging that we had been referring to. Or would she? Best not to go there, I thought. Arthur had also noticed how close to tears Roberta still was. He joined in, cooling the emotional temperature a bit more. "Good advice, Richard, but don't worry about it, Roberta. It sounds as though Richard has rather a warped sense of humour, and likes taking things to extremes in his stories," he said across the table. "I'm sure the subject will never come up among your friends and your Drama Group, so just ignore these wind up merchants around you," he added smiling. I saw Arthur put his hand on Pixie's arm as he mentioned extremes - by the way she was struggling to keep a serious look on her face, I am convinced she had been about to say something somewhat risqué. And indeed, she did confirm later, that she had been about to complain that it wasn't extreme enough in her view. Arthur continued his cooling down session: you could understand from the way he empathised with Roberta that he was a very successful salesman. "Even I know enough to know there's no singing in it, but we should try and go, shouldn't we Julia?" Julia surprised us all by immediately agreeing. "Oooh, yes! Great idea, luvva. It'll be fun. We should make up a group. Sian and Jack and Pixie and Richard would love to come, wouldn't they? Pixie can give a pre-show talk on what to expect of the play, and Richard can add a bit about the characters, can't you Richard?" She fluttered her eyelashes at me, grinning all the time. I swear she was purring! There's a damn good reason that female cats are called Queens: there were three Queens of Devilment sitting round the dining table. Roberta looked aghast. "But the tickets haven't gone on sale yet: they won't for another two weeks." Jack entered the fray: "We'll just have to pre-book, won't we? You've got a website, haven't you?" "I don't know, "Roberta replied. "The Front of House people deal with all of that - I just know that we can't get any tickets ourselves yet. And what do you mean by 'pre-book'? I've never heard of it?" "It's some sort of bollocks dreamt up by marketing people," I said. "It doesn't get you anything special, just gets your name on to some bloody mailing list, so that they can inundate you with spam and junk mail. "It's to con you into thinking you have some sort of priority over anyone else. I'm sure it's just to appeal to peoples' egos - make them think they have one over on everyone else." I was on a roll. "And, if you're dumb enough to give your phone number, so that 'We'll be able to call you and let you know when booking is open', all that will happen is that, one after the other, several dickwads with very dodgy foreign accents will call you, claiming to be from Microsoft Windows Technical Support, telling you that you have a problem with your PC." I paused to take breath. "I bet they don't stoop to that 'pre-booking' rubbish at Glyndebourne, do they, Julia?" I asked. "Don' fink, so. We're members, so I know booking opens earlier for us - but I always has a note on my calendar when and what to apply for." "There you are. It's only those shows that keep advertising their tickets on radio or television that insistent on this 'pre-book now for our performance in December 2025' crap. " "Seems to get you rather hot under the collar, Richard," Sian joined in with a smile. I think she was still trying to get at me about the subject matter of my writing. "What don't you like about it? The word or the activity? Seems fine to me." It wasn't a smile, it was a great big wind-up grin. Bloody Queen! And I knew it was a wind-up, but it still gets my goat. "Well, you can still enter all sorts of idiotic information when applying for anything on the web, so it's not really the activity that I don't like. It's the bloody word. What the fuck does it mean? What's wrong with just 'book'? Doesn't that already have a future implication to it? What's 'pre-' got to do with it? "Anyway, it's all Arthur's fault!" "Mine?" he spluttered. "Well, OK, maybe not yours directly, but your industry." "How so?" "Right. What's the name of your company?" I asked him. "Telhampton Car Sales." "And do you sell any new cars?" "No." "OK. So how many of the advertising banners, or posters, or window notices do you have around your showrooms and outside among the case have the word 'Used' on them?" "Err... I don't really know." "You're hedging!" I replied. "Alright, I'll make it easier for you. Do any of those advertising posters or slogans have the word 'Pre-Owned' on them?" "Well, may be a few of them," he muttered. "Oh bollocks, Arthur. When I was growing up, every town had a 'Used Car Sales' place with advertising boards saying just that. Hell, my town had three of them! Now, the signs all advertise 'Preowned Cars' - what's more, you don't even see the '1 Careful Owner' plastered across the windscreen anymore! "'Used' is a dirty word. Everything is 'Pre-Owned' and it's everywhere. Computer game shops are worse! I don't think they even know how to spell 'Used'. Jesus, in Retail, the U-word is even more offensive than the C-word!" I could feel my face getting red. As you might have guessed, I have strong feelings about the prefix 'pre-' (and, yes, I know that the word 'prefix' also has the prefix 'pre', but we won't go down that particular etymological avenue!) "Good grief! Animation!" Sian cried out, and Jack started to applaud. "So there is still some blood coursing through those cynical old arteries of yours," Sian continued. "Lazarus has returned from the dead." This time, there was a genuine smile in her eyes as she raised her glass in my direction. Of course, no one else around the table had the slightest idea of what she was really referring to, and I think they were all still a little bit shell-shocked by my vehemence. Except, of course, the person opposite me who immediately bounced back in. "No, Sian", Pixie drawled. "You've got it wrong. As Richard said, 'pre-' is everywhere these days. I think you'll find that the new expression is 'pre-lived' not 'dead', isn't it Richard? I mean, it's just so much more up-to-date than these fuddy-duddy old words that have been around for centuries. Don't you agree, Richard?" Queen of Devilment, did I describe her as earlier? Ha! I swear those sharp little ears had turned into little red horns! Devilment Incarnate, that's what she was - and knew it! "And I bet you really love it when someone is described as passing rather than dying, don't you?" she continued, with a huge grin that went from horn to horn. "I do so hope that forked tail of yours is making you really, really uncomfortable," I replied, laughing myself. "Jack, you do know that it's going to be very difficult repairing the pitch fork marks in her seat don't you? Or maybe you should just get a special 'Pixie' chair with a groove in it so she can rest her tail in it and not sit there squirming all the time!" "Don't you dare get me involved," he laughed. "I'm not taking sides - it's bad enough with Arthur giving me stick every week-end on the golf course: I don't need any more of it from either of you two! You're unattached, you deserve each other. Richard's a divorcee, and you're a widow, what's stopping you two getting together and taking it out on each other?" Old philosophers claimed that the air was really an aether through which everything flowed. The only thing that flowed through the aether in this room was pure, unadulterated mischief. "Leave the rest of us out of it!" he sniggered. Pixie beat me to an answer. "Now, there are another two other words that need updating. They're so politically incorrect: widow and widower; divorcee, do you spell it with one or two final 'e's depending on the sex. They're sex indicative, we can't have that! In these days of a Chairperson, we have to have something gender neutral... "How about Pre-Married? It covers divorce and death, it applies equally to both sexes - perfect! In fact, if you think about it, you can get rid of fiancé as well - that's gender indicative too. I mean, when you're engaged you're in the state before marriage, so you're premarried. "It's brilliant, we've got rid of 6 non-PC words from the language and ended up with three simple descriptions: premarried, married and pre-married. Never mind the comma," she added, grinning at me, "just find the hyphen! Richard can write a story about it!" What could I say! Game, set and match to the Empress of Devilment! EPILOGUE Yes, it was a set-up by Sian and Jack, despite all of their fervent denials, and yes, Pixie and I did end up together. Did I write that story? Well, the story about how it came about is before you: we're still researching the sequel, but whether it ends up on the web has yet to be determined. ~--~--~--~--~ End Note I couldn't find an obvious way of working Tom Lehrer into this one - apart from one very contrived reference. I'll try harder next time!