Tag Archives: divorce

1817. A close shave

It was a total give-away when Garth, while setting the table for dinner, nonchalantly said, “It depends on the brand, Ida.”

Garth’s statement was in response to his wife’s question of “Do you want some tomato sauce with dinner?” The problem was, Garth’s wife’s name was Sylvia, not Ida. Sylvia, who was suspicious at the best of times, cottoned on to it immediately. The Ida referred to would inevitably be Ida Brocklehurst who was a teacher’s assistant at the school where Garth taught Biology. Clearly they were having an affair. Why else would he so matter-a-factly trot out the name of Ida if they weren’t carrying on a rampant and sweaty undercover plot of fornication?

“Why did you call me Ida?” asked Sylvia in a voice that both quaked with fear and yet had all the vehemence of someone who already intended to sue for divorce.

“I have no idea,” said Garth. “It just came out.”

Garth came up with an immediate plan. “I think we should both have our ears tested,” he said. “They provide a free hearing test at the pharmacy.”

“Why do we need a hearing test?” demanded Sylvia.

“Because I didn’t call you Ida. I said It depends on the brand, my dear. ”

“Oh, how silly of me,” said Sylvia now slightly embarrassed and in recovery mode.

Garth was relieved. He couldn’t wait to tell Ida in the morning. And somehow he had to stop Sylvia from getting her hearing tested.

1803. Box in the attic

There’s a box I keep in the attic. I don’t know why I keep it. It’s got a few papers in it. I know exactly what they are.

They’re my divorce papers. From Marcia. They’ve been stored in the attic for almost five years. The whole thing came to me as a brutal shock. It was the last thing I was expecting. And then suddenly, one dinner time, Marcia announced the divorce.

I suppose I kept the papers so I’d know what to do next time. If it ever happened again. Like it would. I haven’t dated anyone since the divorce. These things knock the living daylights out of you. Nothing could replace Marcia. I live off the memory. I feed off the memory of those happy days. She’s since remarried. I suspect she met Herbert a good while prior to the divorce announcement.

My sister says I should move on, so this afternoon, when the truck came around collecting the trash I went up to the attic. I grabbed the box with the divorce papers, took it outside and chucked it (with a certain delightful vehemence I might add) onto the truck. It’s gone now. All gone. It was liberating. I felt as if I had let go.

Besides, yesterday I met Melanie.

1724. Fate steps in

My name is Ruth, although everyone calls me Roly-Poly because I’m as wide as I am high. I’ve always been called that. I take it as a term of endearment; an affectional nomenclature. Even some of my teachers at school, years ago, called me Roly-Poly. I have a cheerful disposition, although I’m a little nervous about what I am going to tell you now. I tell you in the greatest confidence.

Yesterday my husband died. It was very sudden. One minute he was standing in front of the pop-up toaster at breakfast and the next minute he was as dead as a dodo. My first reaction was to break into laughter. I couldn’t believe it. I was shocked and I laughed hysterically. All the neighbours would have heard. If they were furtively watching the Who-ever-it-was take my husband’s corpse away they would have heard me shrieking with laughter.

I’ve been laughing all day. I can’t seem to stop, and I have to pretend it’s a nervous reaction brought about by grief or whatever. But that is not the case.

Only the day before he dropped dead he announced that he wanted a divorce. He was leaving me, and taking half of the stuff. The thing he wanted the most was the grandfather clock. That clock was my grandmother’s. It was really mine, not his. It is truly a magnificent and priceless heirloom. Only a week ago, when I came home from work, this stylish saleswoman was in the front room trying to sell my husband furniture polish. She thought the grandfather clock was an irreplaceable antique.

All in all, my husband’s demands were quite clueless; he wanted half the pots and pans, half the furniture, half of this and half of that. Why would he want half of my jewellery? He had it all worked out in his head.

And now he’s dead and it’s all mine! That’s why I’m laughing. I can’t help it. It is Fate; Fate with a little help from a loose wire in the pop-up toaster.

1704. Snip! Snip!

Cornelius was in a good mind to ask for a divorce. He was an avid gardener and had told Constantia again and again, DO NOT CUT THE FLOWERS.

“What’s the point,” Constantia would say, “of growing flowers if they’re not for cutting and putting in a vase to brighten the day?”

“It might brighten the inside of the house,” said Cornelius, “but what about the outside?”

Cornelius did all the gardening. Constantia could have helped, but she didn’t. All she did was gather the secateurs, or sometimes the kitchen scissors, and go snip, snip, as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

Cornelius talked to his plants. They were his friends. He was convinced that talking to his plants increased their vigour, their beauty, their desire to please. Besides, they were much better company than Constantia. All she did was go out and kill the blooms.

Cornelius conceived a plan. It wasn’t one that Constantia was expecting. It came out of the blue; like a blue hydrangea or a blue larkspur. He filed for divorce.

It came as a massive shock to Constantia.

“That’ll teach you,” said Cornelius. “At least Suzie-Lou appreciates everything I do and won’t annihilate my flora.”

1685. A wonderful Christmas gift

You’ve no idea the trouble Ivy went to, to get twelve lovely photographs of the wonderful family who lived next door. There were five in the Winchcombe Family: Mum, Dad, and their three beautiful daughters. The Winchcombes were about as ideal next door neighbours as one could hope for. And every Christmas they would bring Ivy a basket of the tastiest homemade shortbread possible. Glorious!

The trouble was that Ivy always had trouble knowing what best to give them in return. She’d done chocolates at least five times. And then she got this idea. Wonderful!

She would get a calendar printed with a different family photograph each month of the year. Ivy started early gathering the photographs together. It was a difficult task because she didn’t want to let her secret out. The photos were perfect. There was a beautiful one of the family gathering mushrooms in a green field. Another shot was of the family at a fair ground. The loveliest photograph of all was an official portrait taken of the family sitting on a rug in front of a lake. With swans. And trees. And flowers. And… oh lovely! Just lovely!

Ivy was so pleased with the calendar when it was finished that she couldn’t wait to give it to the family. But she must be patient. She mustn’t jump the gun. Only a week to go!

And then the three girls called in with a basket of Christmas shortbread and said that their parents were getting a divorce.

1635. A terrible fire

What a mess! Thank goodness for insurance. The whole house burned to the ground. All the contents have gone up in smoke. At least that saves trying to resurrect smoke-damaged furniture and the like. I’m going to get a hefty sum; and I mean hefty. It pays to insure everything carefully and right. It’s all in the planning.

It happened just over three weeks ago. Thank goodness no one was hurt. My wife had gone for the weekend to visit her mother. The three kids were staying with my parents. And I’d put the dog in the kennels for the weekend (goodness are those kennels expensive!) because I intended going on a weekend hike with other members of the Mountain and Stream Club that I belong to. When I came home the fire-fighters were still quenching the occasional ember that flared up. I’m pretty sure I went into shock.

Of course, the three kids continue to stay with my parents, and the wife with her mother. I’ve been booked into a motel with Mary-Sue. We hope to spend part of the insurance money getting married and building a new place and starting a new life. It was such a relief when the past was destroyed by fire. No more harrowing memories. And the soon-to-be-ex-wife should hopefully be locked up for quite some time for arson. She denies it of course.

1586. In pursuit of happiness

When Noreen married Hank it was so exciting. They had a little nest egg put away, and although both had reasonably stable jobs (Noreen was a cook and Hank was a carpenter) they spent hours discussing what they might do together to be self-employed and earn a living.

In the end it boiled down to two options: they could buy a tavern or they could buy a Bed and Breakfast. Noreen was not overly keen on the tavern, mainly because she had never been in a tavern in her entire life, let alone drink alcohol other than a wee wine mixed with a little water. On the other hand, being a cook she could whip up a storm for breakfast. Hank wasn’t too keen on having to make beds all day and sometimes cook, but Noreen assured him that she would cook and make the beds and his job was to maintain the gardens and buildings. What could be better? A Bed and Breakfast it was!

As if it had been made for them, a rural business came up for sale next to fields of wild flowers, next to a lake, next to a mountain. The sellers assured Noreen and Hank that business flourished, especially when hordes of visitors came over the summer. The Bed and Breakfast was purchased.

At the time of taking over, winter was approaching. The tourist season was over. Noreen discovered she was pregnant. Hank put his back out while creating an herb garden. Spring and summer arrived. Wife and husband were incapacitated. They couldn’t afford to hire help. They argued. Noreen lost the baby. They separated. They divorced. They sold the business for next to nothing. Each went their own way. Each have lived a miserable life since.

That’s the way things go when all turns to slush. Hank can’t cook, is grossly overweight, and lives on hamburgers and fish and chips. Noreen is a raging alcoholic and drinks herself silly every night. Let’s hope they don’t die before they find happiness.

1384. A get-rich-quick scheme

Malvina came up with a brilliant plan: she would open a separate, secret bank account. Then if she got married and divorced all the spare money could go into that account. She figured she needed to get married and divorced about four times, depending upon the profitability of the rejected spouse.

All was going fine until the third spouse. He pushed her under a bus.

Without being too nasty, everyone was rather pleased.

1193. Hell and back

At last! Helen Brown was getting a divorce. It had been a tumultuous marriage and now it was over. She was rid of her abusive, domineering, vindictive, jealous husband.

“I have been to hell and back,” announced Helen.

To celebrate, she reverted to her maiden name: Helen Back.

(Footnote: Dear Discerning Reader, Since moving house I no longer have unlimited broadband. A certain amount is paid for and allotted each month – which is needed primarily for work from home. Earlier this week, from 9 to 10.30 am on two consecutive days, when my computer wasn’t even turned on, nine GB were used up. Until this mystery of squander is solved my participation, other than daily posts, will be limited – so comments, likes, etc. from me will be minimal. Thanks. Have a nice day! Bruce)

 

1188. In hot water

Imelda was adamant. She reckoned that instant coffee tasted ten times better if the kettle was switched off just before boiling. “One degree under boiling, and the coffee tastes best,” she said.

Bradford, the husband of Imelda, disagreed. “Water that’s had the living daylights boiled out of it tastes best,” he said.

Anyway, they got a divorce over irreconcilable differences. The three kids – Guava, Banana, and Ugli Fruit – were farmed out, and Imelda and Bradford got on with their movie careers.