Velma Clout was having a bad morning. It wasn’t twenty-four hours since her boyfriend of eighteen months had left her. And what a relief it was. But the morning saw her with a mighty headache and a massive hangover. She had celebrated the boyfriend’s rejection with a wee bottle of wine or two. Honestly, his leaving was what she herself had wanted to do for a good several months but she was too nice. But now it had happened and there was no going back. If only she had celebrated with more restraint and then she could enjoy his absence without feeling like death warmed up.
Her cell phone rang.
It was her boyfriend of eighteen months. Did she want to get back together? He was upset. He had made a mistake. He knew only too well that Velma wouldn’t have the heart to say “No!”
“Yes!” said Velma. “I’ll see you here for lunch.”
Oh why did she do that? Why why why? Why was she so stupid? So silly? So weak? Why why why? Why couldn’t she take a stand?
Suddenly, grabbing a bag of stuff and her purse, Velma got in her car and headed for a day’s outing at the beach. It was for her the first independent thing she had done in ages. She was now the one doing the breaking up; not him. Oh the freedom that went with that! Velma wound down the car window and sang her heart out fortissimo. It was 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover all the way to the seaside.
Grabbing the electric cable of the hot iron, Deidre swung the iron around and around her head like she was swinging a dead cat by the tail, and killed her husband with a slap-bang on the side of the head. There was blood everywhere and a slight whiff of scorched hair.
Miscreant, she screamed, damned useless effeminate wombat. You are the antithesis of toxic masculinity.
And then Deidre chortled; it was a merciless, cold giggle. She took on the visage of a drooling hyena. This, she sniggered, is what is meant by striking while the iron’s hot.
Today I can get on with my life, mused Deidre. I’m sick of the way people think this planet is made for ironing, and vacuuming, and standing at the kitchen sink. At last I’m liberated from such enslavement. No more base behaviour. No more subservience. No more humiliation and slavery. No more pretending to appreciate a husband who couldn’t stop doing the laundry and ironing and cooking and house cleaning and dishes and getting the kids ready for school. This is the end of the liberated woofter. Now to go online and find me a real man.