“Dear Life, I’m sorry we broke up. I want you back. Love Kathy.”
I had such high hopes for 2020, didn’t you? Then the Covid catastrophe pole-axed the planet. It was as though fate had thrown a bomb into the home stretch of the Melbourne Cup. Yep, Coronavirus’ germy grenade blew up everything.
When lockdown started I tried to be positive. I vowed to take up exercise, learn a language, fulfil the long-cherished dream to write a play; paint a portrait; build that garden gazebo…
Well, after many months of lockdown, do you know what I’ve achieved? Absolutely nothing. Zilch. A big fat zero. The only new skill I’ve acquired is the ability to open a wine bottle with a knife having misplaced the corkscrew while tipsy the night before.
Yes, I attempted exercise. Drifting off to sleep I’d make solemn promises to get up at sparrow’s fart to jog around the park… And next day, like clockwork, I’d be out the door by three pm. But only to go to the bottle shop.
I didn’t learn a language either. I tried, oh yes, I bought the online courses. I now speak Indonesian like a native – a native of Italy. As for Greek? Well, it’s still all Greek to me. And having attempted Russian I’m here to report that it’s not so much a language as an ailment of the throat.
My gardening ambitions also withered on the vine. Until lockdown, my idea of a ‘walk on the wild side’ was not strolling around my herbaceous borders, but swinging off a nightclub chandelier. The only ‘weeding’ I did was weeding out party poopers from guests lists. Flowers were simply those things I sent to friends whose birthdays I’ve forgotten. My local florist helped me select the price range of each bouquet by saying “okay, exactly how bad is it this time?”
But panic buying changed my mind. Having battled my way to the supermarket strapped into a crash helmet and shin pads and armed with a hockey stick, to stare at empty shelves, how I longed for my own vegetable patch.
My lack of gardening abilities was a growing concern. Literally. Usually the only dirty thing about me is my mind, but I’d soon soiled more than my reputation. Toiling, trowel in hand, I watered plants with perspiration till my back ached, my bum numbed and I was in fear of being arrested for GBH from slapping myself senseless swatting bugs. I was so grumpy, my family suggested I only plant snap dragons. Still, I would’ve persevered if I hadn’t then pulled up a worm. Yes, I’ve dated many in my time, but that wasn’t nearly as revolting as finding one squirming, slimily, through my recoiling fingers.
In truth, a garden is a thing of beauty and a job forever. It dies when you don’t water it and rots when you do. So, instead of growing potatoes, I then became one, on my couch, looking out the window at my weeds. Surely, much like me, a weed is just a flower that’s waiting for its beauty to be properly appreciated?
Still, despite my dire lack of accomplishments, there have been some small, unexpected upsides to this vile year. Mask wearing means we gals have saved a lot of money on lipsticks. Books are back in fashion. Influencers have been usurped by influenzers i.e;- Covid medical experts. With a pandemic on the prowl, who wants to listen to some insipid celebrity exhorting you to buy a candle that ‘smells like my vagina.’ (What next Gwyneth? A candel-labia?)
And speaking of ‘old flames’, social distancing has meant a return to courting. Candle lit dinners, conducted over Zoom, have encouraged couples to discover their emotional libidos and swap fast food for slow sex.
There’s even an upside to scuppered Christmas travel plans. At least you won’t have to endure a cavity search performed by someone wearing a Santa hat, right?
And the pressure’s off to come up with a New Year’s Resolution too; just use last year’s list. Although I do think Life should make a N.Y.’s resolution – a promise that 2021 will be a vast improvement on this year’s shit show. And so dear friends, have a safe and sanitised Christmas, elbow-bump your loved ones, and I’ll see you, fully vaccinated, on the Other Side.
Oh, and if you’re looking for last minute Chrissy gifts, PenguinRandomHouse are re-issuing three of my favourite books from my oeuvre. (Wait! Are authors allowed to say they have favourite books? Is it like saying you have a favourite child? Well, don’t tell my other books, but my favourites are “How To Kill Your Husband – and Other Handy Household Hints” , “To Love, Honour and Betray” and “The Boy Who Fell To Earth”. And they’re loitering with intent in a bookshop near you. Happy Holidays. xxxx
What do women really want in bed? Breakfast. Oh, and a good book. If you’re looking for a funny, frivolous yet feisty new read, do slip between my covers. Satisfaction guaranteed.
Here’s a selection of scribblings in which I peel down to my emotional underwear – a psychological striptease that occasionally reveals all.
I think women are each other’s human Wonderbras – uplifting, supportive and making each other look bigger and better.
If he wants breakfast, tell him to sleep in the kitchen.
Men think monogamy is something you make dining tables out of.
Many marriages break up for religious reasons – he thinks he’s a god and she doesn’t.
Love prepares you for marriage the way needlepoint prepares you for round-the-world solo yachting.
Boys will be boys, and so will a load of middle-aged boys who should know better.
Ladies who lynch.
No wife ever shot a husband while he was vacuuming.
I think therefore I’m divorced.
All husbands think they’re Gods. If only their wives weren’t atheists.
Happy wife = happy life.
I couldn’t ask for a better husband… as much as I’d bloody well like to.
Statistically, 100% of divorces begin with marriage.
Marriage is nature’s way of promoting masturbation.
Marriage is a fun-packed, frivolous activity – only occasionally resulting in death.
It’ll be an amicable split. You’ll both get 50 % of the acrimony.
A new invention is required. The monogamous husband. Patent Pending.
How Do I Hate Thee? Let me Count the Ways.
My wedding vows didn’t say To Love, Hoover and Obey.
I’m Having my period so can therefore legally kill you.
You are going to enjoy this marriage, even if I have to divorce you to do so.
A happy marriage is like an orgasm – many of them are faked.
All this emphasis on women faking orgasms, but what about men faking foreplay?
Why do men like intelligent women? Because opposites attract.
Why don’t women tell jokes? Because we marry them.
What does a woman really want in bed? Breakfast.
For women, life is full of lies – I mean doctors maintain that wrinkles don’t hurt.
Legal aid cuts prove that the Tories believe a person is innocent until proven destitute.
Sexist men are so stupid it makes you want to take the ‘men’ out of Mensa.
If a man ever tells you that women fall at his feet – it’s only because he gets them drunk first.
A woman must always fight back. Never just lie back and think of Canberra.
The best cure for menopause is the toy boy diet. A case of having Your Beefcake and Eating It Too.
I don’t fake orgasms. I’m faking being six foot one and seven stone.
Trophy wives tarnish quickly and then get left on the shelf.
Lawyers work 24/7. The partners of lawyers suffer from a bad case of subpoena envy.
Most shrinks should book an appointment with themselves.
The question on the minds of most women is – why doesn’t chocolate go straight to your boobs?
Don’t fall for a man’s puppy dog look… Just get him wormed.
It’s been so long since a man has touched me, not even medical science will want my body.
My top tip for keeping your youth? Lock him in the pool house.