Blowout

My New Chum

42 My new Chum is still in her dressing gown when I ring her on her mobile. Blimey! So sorry. I’m running late. Give me a few minutes to get my lippy on. I’m still slap-free, she says. I’ve got to grab my bum bag and jumper. She asks me if I’ve packed my swimming costume. We are going to the sea for a chin wag. I hope she fancies the scrummy snacks I’ve packed, especially the squidgy cake. She runs down the stairs, full of beans. Pip pip! she calls out to her husband. Cheerio, he waves. She is from Surrey and I am from the States. She’s bought me a book: English for Americans. Our friendship is tickety-boo, though she hates Austin Powers and George Bush. She doesn’t mean to be a whinger, but she can’t get over the porkies that got us into Iraq, the whole shambolic mess. She’s been married five years, and everything was pukka at first—their easy peasy rumpy pumpy, his luvvly-jubbly humming. But now he’s bloody blinkered when it comes to trying anything new. He can’t be fagged to take the rubbish to the skip. To tell you the truth, we’ve just had a stonking row. I unwrap the cake to cheer her up. Ooh, it’s mutt’s nuts! she squeals, taking a bite. She grabs her belly, But this can’t be good for my muffin top! As I pour her a cup of fizzy water, I tell her I get frustrated too, when my husband sits all day in front of the boob tube. My new chum laughs. 43 For her, a “boob tube” is a bra, “knickers” underpants. At least your husband doesn’t throw wobblers, she says. Mine constantly has a strop on. They met in uni. He was ace, brill, a real cheeky monkey. I was gobsmacked in love. Crikey! Now he’s always taking a kip on the couch, after tracking up the house in his beastly muddy trainers. Her eyes catch the eyes of a dishy bloke walking toward the parking lot. No! I say, pulling her hand, yanking her up from our blanket. I’m only having a dekko, she protests. We run to the surf, and I try to assure her that her nuptials weren’t a complete cock-up. Don’t be daft, I’m miserable, she says, just like you. Chips or crisps, two weeks or a fortnight—it’s all the same as I try to pass off codswallop as jolly good advice. We splash until we are lobsters, until she makes me admit marriage takes the biscuit. Then her holiday ends. She’ll email me soon that she’s ditched her wasband. Ta, she says. Bob’s your uncle! Best of British! ...