cheating

Back In Blighty, Babeses!!

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 11 Comments
Blighty rain so not like rain in Langkawi : (

Blighty rain so not like rain in Langkawi : (

Oh my luvs, I hope you didn’t think I had deceasedéd and decomposéd. I haven’t. I have mainly been very busy transforming my personage from Expaterati to Londonati, more specifically Highgate-ati. Highgati? Hmmmm. It doesn’t have quite the same ring to it as Expaterati, but I suppose it’ll just take time for me to emerge from my chrysalis into the glowing social butterfly I was in Singapore, and christen a new ati.

In many ways, it is quite sweet to be back. The old place hasn’t changed that much. Highgate Village (pronounced vill-aahj) is still the same reassuring cocktail of estate agents, charity shops, pubs, coffee chains, etc, with a few independent shops apparently managing to pay the rent (and a betting shop… What now now??!). In Singapore, places like those little shops are a front for other things I’m told, but surely that couldn’t happen in Blighty, where accountability, democracy, transparency, and social justice prevail over all else.

So the Vill-ahhj does seem to be thriving, despite the conspicuous absence of our celebrité vill-aahj-eurs. The Jude, the Sacha, and all that lot. Word on the street is that they still have houses in Highgate, but they’ve upped sticks to LA or whatevs, which means that loads of the places round here are empty. Seems a dreadful shame because these houses are divine, but if they’re paying their UK taxes then I’m not one to have a go. Maybe they are living the heady expat life that I have had to forgo.

And forgo, I am needing to on a number of fronts since our departure from the gleaming island.

Firstly, I have attempted to wear closed shoes, as the climate tells me to forgo my vast collection of Prada flipflops and Chanel espadrilles. Attempted I tell you, I truly have, but after only 16 minutes in my handmade, extremely limited edition Doc Martz (made in the Yukes, babeses, yes here, not in some factory outside Shenzhen – I have one pair, and there are three or four others kicking around in the world, I believe), my feet were screaming to be rescued from their savage fate… So back to the flipflops I did dash. My toes have on occasion turned a shocking shade of blue, but I’ve made time for a pedi, choosing a shade which both tones with the blueing and enhances my suddenly lingering tan.

[Note to self: add tan to the list of things forgone, in addition to blood circulation in toes.]

Secondly, I have had to forgo the ease of obtainance of Nespresso pods. No longer can I roll out of bed, meet my girlies for breakfast and then loll to the basement of Takashimaya to stock up (or easier still, send the help). No. Now I have to order the damn things! Ridic!! How heavily the Mighty tumble, hashtag very sad face : (((!! Ok so it only took 22 and a sixth hours between makin the call and takin delivery, but that’s 22 more hours than it took in Singas.

And threely, the forgone thing that so sucks the most is my girlies. Missing you, babeses!! Can’t wait to see you in Nov when I come back for the ANZA Melbourne Cup. X X O X

But I’ve got a whole bunch of girlies here to catch up with so it’s like totes cool, right?! Yes, lah.

I should probably unlearn my Singlish. I keep givin it “can” and “cannot” on my calls to the utilities and the TV license and the council for the Maserati resident’s parking permit (yes, I got another one hahaaa! So much cheaper here!! Cheap as chips… Have kept my old silver car too, but I’m not sure classic cars are still cool, are they??).

I’ve found schools for Max and Mills, no thanks to Don as I haven’t heard from him at all and presume he is still in Hawaii with my teenage step-sister.

Everyone said the school thang would be a nightmare, but actually not at allio. I just researched where celebs send their irritants, applied, said some stuff about my proximity to the royal fam, and we were a-go-go. Mixed school for Max, girls’ school for Mills. The Max one wanted to have him “assessed”, so I was like, “wha?!”, but they were like, “ya”, so I did and the educational psych said he’s dyslexic. OMG! So he’s not just a useless moron, likely to follow in his philandering useless father’s footsteps. Turns out he’s got Difficulties and Needs. How cool is that?! Love it.

Mills totes hearts her new uniform, so she’s all good.

I’m thinking about getting another dog. No hound could replace my lovely Froo Froo, of course, but with Hampstead Heath on our doorstep and an amazebobs grooming salon in La Villaahj, frankly it’s churlish not to. Should the poop regulations feel too arduous, we can wander down the hill to Archway and donate droppings liberally, as is the wont of those zed zone Islington people. At least Froo Froo mark two’s number twos will be formed from organic food stuffs, purchased at the Crouch End branch of Waitrose when it re-opens after its annoyingly ill-timed refurb. Were they not informed of my return date? Deeply annoying.

At Raffles Hotel, Rising Above

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 4 Comments

The irritants and I are back in Singapore before our next trip on Thursday, and I thought it would be nice to stay at Raffles so I got two suites next door to each other. Leaving Max and Mills with the help, I went down to the bar for a beverage. As I sat there, deciding how best to spend these last few days in Singas, a curious thing happened. I got a Skype message from Chantelle.

[For those of you in need of a Previously on Expat Somebody… Chantelle is the estranged wife of my demented father. The two of them and Chantelle’s daughter Angelica (Angel, ugh) were living in Noosa before he lost his marbles last year, and once said marbles were truly gone, he decided that his wife was not in fact the gorgeous young Chantelle, but a lovely smelly old dear at Shady Elms where he had been incarcerated for his own safety. In possession of a tremendously weak character, Chantelle proceeded to indulge in a nervous breakdown and I accidentally agreed to have Angel come and live with us for a few months. Then the week before last, my husband ran off with Angel and there you have it. That’s your Previously on…]

So here is the Skype conversation from last night:

Skype with Chantelle 1

Oh Hawaii, is it? How divine. Don has moved to Hawaii with his teenage girlfriend, and I’ve got a one-way ticket to freezing my A off in London…

I had a quick think and messaged her back:

Skype with Chantelle 2
One of the screenshots Chantelle sent was of Angel standing in front of a sign saying ‘Lokelani Suite’, with a great big grin on her stupid face and the location tagged as the Four Seasons Resort, Maui. So I rang the Four and got put through to the suite (it was late in Hawaii at that point, but all I had to do was give my name and say that something awful had happened to Max). Don answered the phone.

“Don, it’s me. Don’t talk, just listen. I don’t know what you’re up to, and frankly the number of sh**ts I give is in rapid decline. But I want you to know that I mahusively enjoyed our family holiday in Langkawi – where I made the acquaintance a delightful pool boy with a much nicer c**k than yours FYI – and I’m looking forward to taking the kids to Phuket this week, as we’d planned, for my Expaterati girlie’s awesome birthday party… And oh, by the way, your children keep asking when you’re coming back. But I’m totes cool, as are my chi and my Kundalini, no thanks to you very muchly. I’m all set to head home to London next week. Not that you care, obviously, but we’ll be at Mummy’s until the shipment arrives, and then we’ll go up to Highgate late August. So you need to let me know what I should do with your possessions, particularly the enormous pieces of furniture, such as your vile ancient grandfather clock. You’ve made it quite clear that my home is no longer our home, and I do not want your things in my home.”

I paused for breathe. Gosh I really am very fit to have gone on speaking for that long! Well done me : )

“Ok”, he said, “Are you finished?”

“No. No, I’m not actually. Chantelle got in touch with me just now and it could’ve been mucho embarrassando were I not so quick witted…”-

Cutting me off, Don asked somewhat abrasively, “What did you tell her?”

“Nothing, Don. She thinks we’re all having a wonderful holiday together in bloody Hawaii!! But we’re not, are we, Don? No, we are not.”

“Oh, thank god”, he said, under his breathe, before regaining his usual smug tone, “Ok… Well look, EJ, I know you must be worried about all this… but there’s really nothing to worry about… and certainly no reason to alarm Chantelle. Don’t worry about money or anything, I’ll” –

This time I interrupted him.

“No, I’m not worried at all. You just carry on doing what you want to do. As you always have. Why change the habits of a lifetime, eh? But now I’m going to do what I want to do. Goodbye, Don. Good effing riddance to a lowly excuse for a man. If you’re not going to be grown-up about this, I suppose I’ll have to be. And I meant what I said about the pool boy, so there!!”

With that, I hung up. That told him, I reckon. It’s always best to rise above.

So Where The Eff Is Don?

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / Leave a comment
Kinda rainy...

Kinda rainy…

Having said that it’s all awesome and fab here in divine Langkawi, I might’ve failed to mention that it has been raining the whole freakin’ week. I’ve had a word with the hotel manager, but he said he can’t do anything about it. Come on, Four Seasons, what now, now?!!

It isn’t totes terriblé though, I suppose, because it’s probably best not to go back to England with a tan. People get so jealous about stuff like that. It’s as if unless you’re pasty, they don’t want to know you. Ridic. Well, properly pasty I soon will be.

My Kundalini activation is fading as quickly as my tan, probably because of the stormy weather, both inside and out. I’ve been thinking about Don, and how this is all going to work, what with the move back to London in ten days’ time. No live-in helper AND no husband?… What kind of hellish combination is that?! It’s a living nightmare, I tell you.

I was going to wait until next week to see if Clara knows where Don is (as she knows him so bloody well, though supposedly I don’t know that!), but it was playing on my mind rather badly yesterday, and I decided to Skype her ASAP, for the sake of my chi. I felt a tad hashtag awkz about the conversation because: A) I haven’t told her I know about her and Don’s hidden past that they’ve concealed from me for so many years, and frankly I’m more than a little miffed about the situation; and 2. she hasn’t mentioned that anything untoward has occurred at work, so I wasn’t sure what state I’d find her in. I didn’t want to have to listen to her drone on about her woes while trying to sort out my own, did I? Nope way, Josephine!

So I messaged young Chilly Mallone (ok, he’s not that young anymore) to find out whether Clara’s career was in tatters yet. I sent him the money weeks ago and thought I’d hear about it from Mummy the moment the poop hit Clara’s fan.

It turns out that the wayward delinquent Chilly once was, grew up into someone with morals, of all things! He texted me back saying he’d realised that he couldn’t go through with the allegations because Clara had “been there when no one else wuz”, and it was “wrong to mess with her”. Oh, brilliant!! Since when do these people have a conscience?!

I was quite annoyed by this revelation because so far none of my carefully crafted plans for rewengé have come to fruition (see Revenge Phase Two and Three if you haven’t been paying sufficient attention to my glamorous life). I had hoped that at least this one would.

To dig a little deeper, I phoned him. He said he was busy, but “I meant what I said in my text… And I’ll give you back the money, awright?”

“Yeah, whatevs, sweets”, I told him, “I’m in London in a couple weeks. Let’s hook up in my manor and you can give it back… If you haven’t spent it on crack by then!”

“Look lady”, came Chilly’s retort – oh so now he’s allowed to have tude?? – “You’re the one who’s on crack. Seriously. What are you smokin’? Trying to mess with your own cousin. That’s your family, man! Thas your blood! Thas” –

I couldn’t bear to listen anymore to this uppity nonsense, so I interrupted his flow.

“Ok, Chilly, ra ra ra and all a dat, but I’m outa here. Call ya when I’m back. Lay-tah”, I said with my finest Londin verbiage, and hung up.

Then I Skyped Clara. She was at work, but accepted the call because it was lunchtime, and also she wanted to tell me the “great news” she’d just heard. She has been promoted. Well, yay for her. (I really must get a job when I get back so that I can get promoted.) As we spoke, it was obvioso that she had no clue about Don’s disappearance because she was asking how the packing went and when we’re back, with irritatingly genuine care and excitement. She positively gushed at me.

“I’m so looking forward to seeing you all, Emma-Jane. The kids must have grown since I saw them last! It’ll be wonderful to be able to be in their lives… and yours too, of course. We must get together for a drink as soon as you’re back. Remember how we used to meet up in the City after work for a good old natter? That’ll be so lovely… And if there’s anything you need, anything I can do, just give me a shout, OK?”

“Yeah, Clara babes, it will be lovely”, I said, thinking there was really no point in continuing the convo, and making my exit thusly: “I’d better be off-ski now anyhoo. You know what Don’s like when he’s on his hols – requires constant attention, LOL! But soooo amazebobs to hear your news. I am mega happy for you. You rock!”

I clicked end call and felt miserable. Chilly let me down, Clara made me feel all guilty by being so effing nice, and I was still none the wiser about Don, or about my stupid step-sister Angel. What I’ll have to do next, which I’m hoping to avoid, is call her equally stupid mother in Australia, Chantelle. Ugh. Please Lordy, don’t make me have to do that. I don’t want to talk to her period, but I especially don’t want to tell her that her teenage daughter (who was sort of my responsibility, I guess, was she?) has done a runner with my husband. It’s not my fault, is it, dear readers?? I didn’t see it coming. Did you?!

To make myself feel better, I resorted to the two things that always work: I ordered some Veuve Click, and had a bikini photo shoot. Weather be damned! I thought Max could take the pics, but he proved to be utterly useless, so I sent him back to the kids’ club. Instead I got this sweet chap from a resort down the road to help me out. He’s a pool boy who I met at Langkawi’s famed jungle waterfall on Wednesday. I did tell you about him, I think. Or did I? Golly perhaps I failed to mention that too!

As you can see, I needed a brolly to protect the hairdo, and I’ve just had a profound reflection in my beautiful complex brain: that you, dear readers, are the brolly for my psyche. I heart you.

Rainy Langkawi 2 edit

Oh yeah Langkawi trio

Am triple-horrified by this weather business…

The One Where I Confront the Lowlife Ho

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 1 Comment

swimming-pool-and-the-club-house

Today was the day of my glorious confrontation with the fanny-face who stole my husband.

I had it all planned out to the last destructive detail. I would find her, loudly tell her that I know all the sordid deets in the company of anyone present at her condo pool, and then show her on my laptop how I was going to ruin her life. Given that the assembled crowd would no doubt support me, they would most certainly volunteer to restrain her as I pressed “Public” to make the Liz-shaming website go live, and then proclaimed her adultery on every expat wives’ FB group on the island. I would be sure to get plenty of photos of her well-deserved distress, and also some selfies of her and moi, with very different expressions on our faces. Mine gleeful and triumphant. Hers, not so much. Possibly some belfies too, though because of my background in criminal law, I would stop short at actual assault. Only if the opportunity presented itself.

Thanks to my friendship with the helpful gentleman concierge at Liz’s condo, he texted me to confirm that she was indeed where she would normally be at 11 o’clock on a Thursday morning, sunning her vile self by the pool. I arrived at precisely 11.13 and the lovely chap showed me to a parking spot, before pointing me in the direction of the pool. Hers is one of those resort-like condos, with several large pools feeding into each other, flowing to a dramatic waterfall at the farthest end, and culminating in a secluded spa pool.

I sauntered surreptitiously across the pool area dotted with sun beds, many of which were occupied by the General Expaterati. Having located my target, I walked slowly and calmly towards her. My distinctive flaming locks hidden under a black balaclava, I was like a panther in the wild, preparing to take down my unsuspecting prey. I was only halfway to her when I realised that perhaps a balaclava in Singapore was not the most discreet choice because, as I reached inside my bag for the laptop, a woman shouted, “OMG, she’s got a gun!!”

People screamed. Everyone – and I mean everyone – turned to look at me. Fearing for my own life in that moment, I decided to cut my losses, jettison the element of surprise and proceed, as best I could, according to plan.

“Argh! LOL!!,” I said, projecting my voice throughout the condo and taking off the ill thought-out balaclava, “No, it’s cool! It’s not a gun. Just a laptop. And it’s only me under here… Little ole me!…”

Some looked back at their phones and iPads, but others continued to stare (I did look hot).

“I’m just… ummmmm… I’m just surprising a friend… for her birthday. Who doesn’t love birthday surprises?!”, I went on for good measure, then held my index finger up to my lips, “So please, babeses… Shhhhhhhhhhhh! Don’t want to ruin the surprise now, do we?”

It was too late though. Liz had seen me and began gathering her things to leave. In true Terminator fashion, I sprinted towards her then, with inhuman speed and fluid robotic movements. With the buildings behind me, she had nowhere to go for sanctuary. She dropped her stuff and made a dash for the pool, diving in and swimming away. Sheesh that woman can swim! I didn’t know quite what to do. I had to confront her with the laptop about my person, but how could I risk getting my beloved MacBook Air wet?! I lost quite a bit of time obtaining a dry sack from the on-lookers (I may have said that I was with the FBI and I needed to commandeer a dry sack… I don’t recall), but once I had, I waded into the pool fully dressed, and doggie-paddled (swimming not my thing – plays havoc with the hairdo so have never bothered with it) after the adulterous abscondee.

For several minutes there ensued a water chase of Hollywood proportions. I had garnered some support among the crowd (ah yes, I remember now that I did say I was with the FBI), so they helped me by preventing her from getting out of the pool when she reached one end. She then swan on, back the other way, and I pursued her. It was shallower near the waterfall side so I could run, my arms a-flail and my complex brain wishing I had paid more attention to my mother when she went on about aqua aerobics. Liz got to the waterfall. In a vicious and calculated move, she dived through it to the spa pool beyond. She must’ve known that I wouldn’t forsake my hair! Damn her, that wily ho!!

So there we were. Her, stuck in a walled jacuzzi and me, facing her through the waterfall.

“Listen, EJ!”, she shouted above the tumbling water, “I know why you’re here. But I haven’t seen Don for weeks. He’s been away, hasn’t he? He’s not answering my mails. So whatever you want to say, let’s just get out of the pool, tell these people you’re not with the FBI, have a chat, and then we can both go home, ok?”

What now, now??? I didn’t believe her, but I was very worried about the spray from the waterfall onto my hair and quite exhausted from my amphibian exertions.

“Alright”, I said, “Alright then. But one foul move and I’ll… I’ll…”

I couldn’t think of what to threaten, so I gave her my most evil stare and doggie-paddled back to the sun beds.

Once there I announced to the crowd, “People. The Bureau thanks you for your cooperation today. You will be rewarded in heaven, if not before. I now need to ask that you go about your business, and pay no heed to further developments.”

Mostly, people did as I asked. I should think about working for the FBI for real. I’m obviously pretty good at it.

Liz started speaking.

“Honestly, I swear to you, it’s over. The last time I saw him was July 7th. And that’s when he freaked out on me. He said it was all getting too serious, too much… Not to me it wasn’t, it was just one of those things. Why would I want anything serious with someone else’s husband? I’ve already got that with my own. Sorry, but I’m just trying to be honest…”

“Oh”, I said, “You’ve already got that! So you take my husband and do all that grotesque swinging business, but you’ve already got it!!”

“Well yes, exactly! I’ve already got all the serious stuff, so for Don to start thinking what we had was serious… No no nooooo! I didn’t know what he was talking about at first. He told me he couldn’t ‘go there again’. He said he’d been in touch with an old friend who knows him better than anyone else and she had made him realise that he was just repeating the past… trying to get back what he’d had with her, but now he knows that’s not possible. He seemed really shaken up. Not his usual self. Then he left, and I haven’t heard from him since.”

As you can imagine, dear readers, I was #baffed. I couldn’t see why this cornered woman would lie to me so late in the game, but how could I believe anything that came out of her mouth? Super annoying because it really messed with my plans.

“EJ”, she continued, “I know you don’t trust me. And I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t trust me either. But I promise you I’m telling the truth. And it’s probably not my place to say this, but he really does love you. He must’ve realised, as our relationship got out of control for him, that what he has with you is far more important… More meaningful… And I guess he doesn’t want to lose that. Truly, what happened between Don and I – it wasn’t about you. Just another journey, you know? We all have our journeys. We can only go where they take us.”

I thought about opening the laptop and revealing my plans for her social demise that I’ve worked v hard on, but I felt so confused that I froze.

“If you tell Don that I have been here today, I will make your life a LIVING HELL“, I hissed, convincingly hiding my confusion and turning to go.

“Oh EJ”, she called out and I swung around to see that she was sneering at me, “There is one other possibility of course. I could be wrong that he loves you. Maybe it’s just that he’s met someone else.”

With that, I made my way back to the car park. Somewhat bedraggled, but still exceedingly glamorous.

 

 

 

 

Birthday shout-out to my P-Dubs Expaterati Girlie whose actual birthday it actually is!! See you at the Ed Festie 2016! I could do with some laughter right about now…

Rest & Relaxation from Revenge & Relocation

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 1 Comment
The world was my oyster, not so long ago...

The world was my oyster, not so long ago…

Last night I went to find some respite from the incrediblé stresses of revenge and relocation. Some R & R from R & R, har-dee-har. Lots of my Expaterati girlies were there, except the ones who’ve abandoned ship for the summer. It was Ladies’ Night at the Oyster Bar, Collyer Quay, with an ocean of free-flowing bubbly. A word to the wise though: if you want to eat like a expat wife as well as drink like an expat wife, bring your own greens to this joint. It totes ticks the high-protein box, but for vegetables to compensate for the drink-age, I suggest you BYO. Or order rocket (for the love of god, make sure they put the dressing on the side!).

Super fun times were had by all, and everyone, particularly yours truly, looked serioso hot. It’s impressive that I can maintain such high levels of hotness, despite the trying circumstances under which I currently labour.

I had hoped Liz might be there so that I could put laxatives in her drink, but no such luck. Instead I decided to just have an awesome time, and not let bitter thoughts enter my beautiful complex brain.

As the hours wore on though, I was chatting to Flo, and I found myself thinking about what’s happening in my life. The fatigue of a long day must’ve loosened my tongue because I told her about Don’s affair and how shocked I was to discover the emails between him and Clara.

“I just can’t believe it, Flo!”, I sobbed, my emotions getting the better of me, “How could he do this to me? And with that woman? What’s she got that I haven’t??”

I expected Flo, as one of my closest expat BFFs, to offer some support. I was sorely mistaken.

“Don’t be so naive, Eeeej! Everyone’s at it!! Come on, even you! I do read your blog sometimes you know, and I recall a not entirely innocent thang you had going with Michelle’s husband last year… Then there’s Seth of course, with his ridiculous hair! What’s that about?? You’ve decided to go back to the same yoga class as him, I notice…”

“What?! Seth is just a friend. A very nice man who has very nice hair, I’ll have you know. The photo just doesn’t do it justice… Anyway… What do you mean, everyone’s at it?! No they aren’t!”

“Oh please! Look around!!”, she said, pointing at women in the assembled crowd, “See her over there? At it. And see her? At it. And then there’s her, of course. At it, but it’s pretty obvious from that outfit. And her. And her. And her.”

“No, Flo, no, Flo, NO! I don’t believe you.”

“Believe it, sweets. We have our own Facebook group. You won’t be able to find it because it’s secret, but I’ll add you if you want.”

“WE?? You mean you too?!”

Flo seemed exasperated.

“EJ. How long have you been an expat for? Yet you act like you’re fresh off the boat! Of course me too. You’ve met him tons of times. My personal trainer. I got lucky there. Not gay and not married, so none of those annoying complications. A rare combination on these shores.”

There was a crashing sound from a distant table, glasses shattering. Young bankers, no doubt. So absorbed with swiping right on Tinder that they’ve lost all other hand-eye coordination.

I looked out towards the bay. Such an orderly view of exciting bright lights.

Revenge Phase Two: Liz

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 5 Comments

Babeses. With cases of marital betrayal, like the one in which I am currently embroiled, it is patently clear that the underlying cause is the Other Woman. Men, as we know, are simple creatures. Easily led. Easily hunted down, and captured by these determined sluts. They can’t help themselves. It’s as if one whiff of slut juice, and they’re hooked, like toothless crackheads desperately seeking out their next disgusting fix.

The fact with these women is that it is them are the problem. Women, as the fairer sex, are supposed to be better than this. Knowing that men are ultimately vulnerable beings – as they know particularly well in some countries where women conceal their overly-tempting attributes such as elbows – we women have a duty to protect men from their own stupidity. Yet these Other Women, so selfish and so foolish, forget their duties as females. In doing so, what they fail to realise is that the quicker their juices have ensnared the fool, all the more quickly will he find another pestilent goblet from whence to sup.

For the next part of my revenge campaign, I am focussing most intensely upon Liz. This is mainly her fault, after all, not Don’s. The attack will be two-pronged, as follows.

 

Online:
I have set up a site providing detailed information about her, including photos (all of which I took from social media, and her LinkedIn profile), and about her exploits with my husband. I am also using the photos from Don’s iCloud that I found in February, but I will do some blurring as I do not wish to taint any innocent eyes which may accidentally fall upon the site due to my excellent SEO skills. I have taken a teensy bit of artistic license with the written content, and used my amazebobs Photoshop skills to further enhance her awfulness.

The site is all ready to go. All I need to do, at a time of my choosing, is change the visibility settings from private to public, and watch the hits roll in.

I will initiate a hashtag on Twitter and Instagram (maybe Pinterest too), to further spread the word. Name suggestions for this hashtag are currently being considered, should you wish to contribute your ideas, dear readers, such as #pestilentfannyLiz, and so on. Please submit your contributions via the comments on this page. ThanQ.

In addition to this project, I will post the following message and a nice clear photo of Liz on all the expat wives’ FB groups in Singapore, instantly accessing many thousands of women – some of whom are in possession of great vitriole, in need of an object.

This woman, Elizabeth Genoir, is an adulteress. I know this because she is screwing my husband, and has very probably screwed yours too. Expat wives of Singapore, I urge you to do your worst.

I will include a link to the Liz-shaming site. Thereby thusly, I shall whip up an army of enraged piranhas who will chew her to pieces within a matter of hours.

 

At her abode:
I have had words with the concierge at her condo (cash may have changed hands, but I can neither confirm nor deny this). He has assured me that he feels my pain, is very much empathically aligned with my wronged position, and will do everything he can to make her home life as miserable as possible. Things will mysteriously begin going wrong for her, transforming her into a haggard shadow of her former self.

The helpful gentleman is also tracking her movements, so that he can let me know at what times I am most likely to find her. This is because part B of Phase Two is confronting her at the condo, during a moment when there are as many people around as possible to witness her disgrace. I’m thinking by the pool perhaps. I will then tell her about my upcoming online activities, in preparation for the launch.

 

So they were all business trips, huh Don?

So they were all business trips, huh Don?

 

 

So that’s Phase Two. Do tell me if my plans aren’t brutal enough. I do have rather a lot on my plate at the mo. As if taking revenge wasn’t sufficiently burdensome, I am also having to deal with the minutiae of the upcoming relocation. At least it’s forcing me to look through our stuff and sell anything of value. Max didn’t need such an expensive bike anyway, and I’ve said it was stolen though that’s impossibly unbelievable in Singapore. Don believed me, but only because he wan’t really listening – he’s even more preoccupied than ever right now.

My step-sister Angel is also preparing for departure, to go back to her mother in Australia. Chantelle appears to have sorted herself out, with the help of a bizarre-sounding cult, and accepted that my father doesn’t give a sh** about her and never did, even before the dementia kicked in. The irritants will miss Angel, but it doesn’t matter because children are so resilient and forgetful. I won’t’ miss the waif at all. She was so unforgivably rude to me at Max’s birthday party. Good riddance to bad rubbish.

No news from Clara yet as to the ruination of her beloved career. I’m in no hurry though. As I have previously said, revenge is a dish best served cold.

 

 

A Dish Best Served Cold

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 3 Comments

I woke up this morning feeling somewhat the worse for wear. To be precise, I woke up first at 3AM on a sun lounger on the roof terrace, clutching a bottle of Click and feeling like death; but once I re-awoke in bed a few hours later, I was merely the worse for wear. I think it’s the haze. Environmental pollutants do tend to affect my highly sensitive internal ecosystem. Most probably because of my elevated empathy quotient.

The stress I have been under these past few days seems to be taking its toll. I haven’t even been able to have a pedi – you should see my poor neglected toenails. I am having to wear Chanel espadrilles every day (sometimes last season’s for the sake of variation which is downright humiliating), despite the searing heat, to hide the woeful mayhem that lies beneath.

Because I can’t wear flip flops, and it takes that much more time and effort to put on actual shoes, I was a bit too late to see Max and Mills off on the bus to summer camp today. I therefore thusly deemed it a foregone conclusion to stay in bed, though I did make it to the window, opening the lovely Peranakan shutters almost in time to wave them off. They wouldn’t have noticed anyway, but at least I know that I did all I could to be an excellent mother under the present arduous circumstances.

I felt so down at the mouth and frownful (argh, must pull myself sufficiently together to book a Botox sesh ASAP) that I had to cancel Eva. I just couldn’t handle being yelled at in that trans-pan-Atlantic-continental-European accent she has. Some people love that sort of thing (I’m aware of that from a Japanese film studies course I once did), but for me right now, not so much. Thank Dios she let me off with just a text, and didn’t phone me back to shout motivational quotes at me like, “Do zumzing today zat your future zelf vill zank you for!”

I closed the shutters and tried to go back to sleep, in the hope that I might dream of the lovely flaming crown I encountered yesterday at yoga. Instead, my wakeful tormented mind offered up thread upon thread of emails between Don and Clara (my cousin who he apparently almost married!! Wtf?!), and Don and Liz (the lowdown husband-stealing C word he’s apparently leaving me for), each one more disgusting and daemonic than the last.

Around midday I gave up on sleep perchance to dream, babeses, and went downstairs for a lemon water and a green smoothie. Whilst perfecting the latter with a shot of something or other (which is fine because all the good stuff far outweighs the bad stuff cancer-wise, and that’s totes scientificated because I read about it on the Internet and why would anyone lie on the Internet?), I had the help run a bath, liberally tossing in essential oils of lavender, bergamot and lemongrass. Sending her back to her quarters, I sank my hot self into the fragrant bath, working hard to ignore the hell of my toenails which emerged all too often into view, and drank the green smoothie.

The next thing I knew, my phone was making that Skype ringtone sound. So distinctive, that tone! Well done them for making it so darn unique!! These tech companies are truly awesome. Fumbling for the phone, I observed that I was now in bed, wearing some of my most prized Agent Provocateur. I clicked to accept the call, and realised that the departing image my consciousness was replacing with reality was of Seth; his afro gleaming and his smile beaming.

Seth

Seth

“Hullo?”, I said, as elegantly as I could muster.

“EJ hi, it’s me, Clara.”

Upon hearing her voice, I felt organic kale, spinach, strawberries, red dragon fruit, chia seeds and other stuff rising up from my stomach, as if I was about to spew forth the bile of my rage. I paused though, thinking about Eva’s annoying quote.

“Oh hi, Clara babes, how nice to hear from you. What’s up? To what, precisely, do I owe the pleasure??”

(If I can’t mince my words now, when, dear readers, can I?!)

“How are you, love?”, came the vile traitor’s reply. Little does she know that her head will soon be metaphorically speared on a spike at the Tower, as far as I’m concerned.

“I’m great, sweets. You know, just doing my thang. Hanging with my girlies, racing around Singas in my soft-top. Brunching. Lunching. Shopping. Working out. Looking hot. And I’ve written another amazebobs rap to follow on from the first one. Expat rap is seriously scaleable, I’m told.”

“That’s good, love, I’m glad you’re doing fine”, the traitorous C replied. (When did she start calling me “love”?? Oh right, just now, silly moi.)

On she went: “I’ve been thinking that it might be helpful for you to consider how things will be if you’re coming back to England. There’s a very good chance of that, right? So I’m wondering how you can start the transition process now, for your sake, but also for the kids. I loved your post on having a rehab for expats, and actually I think you might need a bit of a rehabilitative intervention when… I mean if… you do come back.”

“Yes lah, honey, you’re SO right. As you always are, izn’t it??”

Clara of course didn’t appreciate my fabulous Singlish, but you know what: F her.

“If you mean schools and stuff, lah, it’s all gravy”, I said.

“My remote assistant in the Philippines has sorted that sh** out. Asian Tigers and the company relo peeps will fix everything else, so it’ll just happen like clockwork. Oh but wait… Hmmmm… Maybe you’re talking about my emotional transition. Yeah, I bet that’s what you mean. You just luuuuuurv talking about that stuff!”

“Yes, Emma-Jane”, replied the C, “That is what I’m talking about. You seem to be quite settled in Singapore, and I feel anxious about your readjustment when, I mean if, you come home. So I want to help, if I can. It may be a difficult time for you and the children. But I’m here for you. I want you to know that.”

“Yes, hon, it probably will be a difficult time”, I humoured her further, “Which is why I’m sooooo happy to know that you’ve got my back. Where would I be without you, huh?! Look, sweets, I gotta go. Stuff to do, peeps to see…”

“Of course, love, I’ll let you go. I know things must be hard for you right now, but this too will pass. You’re a strong person. You’ll find a way through this, whatever happens.”

Yeah, hashtag whatevs to you too, cousin Clara. Always pretending to give a crap when, behind it all, you’ve betrayed me as much as Don has. More, perhaps.

So you can cry me a river, you sad effing nut job pathetic excuse for a cousin.

Since the call, I haven’t had time to start looking for a lawyer. I’ve been way too busy thinking about what to do to Clara.

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No more Mister Nice Guy

Expat Marriages Suck, Part Three

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 5 Comments

or Phoenix From The Flame

In my confusion, this evening I at least managed to drag myself to yoga, the class that Seth goes to. (I think it might fit in with my schedule after all.) Whilst doing the Warrior Pose, I started thinking about all the horror and my arms began to shake and sink towards the floor. But then I felt strength, like a bolt of lightening, rising up from my feet, up through my shapely legs, and hips, and into my arms, until my whole body was glowing from the inside out. Vikram looked briefly alarmed, and asked if I was ok. Seth noticed too, of course, giving me a tiny gentle nod.

When the rest of the class moved on to the next pose, I said to Vikram that I’d like to stay in Warrior a while longer. By this point, the glow had risen to my head as well, and there it was: I found my missing thinking cap. And it was no meagre, flimsy thing. It was a crown of shimmering flames, calcinating my pain into ashes of realisation.

I knew then that I have to find a lawyer. I will ask the wise ladies on the Real Singapore Expat Wives Facebook group, and the Flying Solo group. The problem is the money as it’s not easy for me to get large sums under the radar from our joint account, but my crown offered immediate reassurance, telling me to sell whatever I can. That dampened my mood a little. It’ll be horrendous to say goodbye to my handbags and watches. Needs must, though. Needs must.

I got home tonight and am having some Veuve Click on the roof terrace. I’m fighting off the desire to Whatsapp Clara, but fight, I must. Given her obvious nefarious intent and shameful betrayal of my trust, she would of course tell Don that I know. I can’t let that happen before I have a plan in place. I refuse to give her the satisfaction of being an accessory to my assassination.

 
 

You are my cloak against the elements, dear babeses

You are my cloak against the elements, dear babeses

Expat Marriages Suck, Part Two

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 4 Comments
Frida would totes feel my pain

Frida would totes feel my pain

Since the nightmarish revelations of the weekend, that my husband is planning to leave me and the children for another woman, and that he and my ex-trusted cousin were an item back in the day, I am finding it difficult to proceed as per usuo with my glamorous life. Despite my amazing resilience and general upbeat attitude, I am feeling profoundly at a loss.

I have had numerous offerings of support and advice from you, dear readers, for which I am eternally grateful. One common thread seems to be that I should take Don to the cleaners and, rest assured, once I’ve got my thinking cap properly installed, I will do precisely that. He won’t know what’s hit him. Said thinking cap though seems not to be currently in my hat cupboard, or if it is, it’s hidden behind a bunch of other stuff where I can’t find it (damn the help! Surely it’s her job, not mine, to keep my storage systems arranged in an orderly fashion).

At least while I am looking for it, I have the element of surprise firmly on my side. As long as Don doesn’t know that I know, I have the upper hand. He left for HK on business yesterday morning (oh really? Are all these trips really business??), so it’s not that difficult to keep my thoughts from him.

The harder part is not contacting Clara to ask her wtf she has been playing at all these years – pretending to be such a supportive, holier-than-thou cousin. And her a psychotherapist!! Ha! So much for all her spewings on transparency and trust in relationships. Bloody hypocrite.

I shall endeavour to keep you updated with events as they unfold. Thank goodness for you, babeses, and thank goodness for WordPress and all things blogging.

Expat Marriages Suck

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 15 Comments

As is my wont, I had a pretty fabulous weekend. On Friday night we went with our Expaterati gang, boyses and girlses, to Potato Head to catch some awesome reggae grooves on their roof terrace. Afterwards the more staminatic among us, moi included of course (but not Don and a few others), dashed to Zouk for further party-age.

Saturday, I had a lovely long chillax at home, followed by a massage and some detox reflexology. Then Eva kicked my butt into shape before my hair appointment, and later I hit the town again, starting at the Tippling Club for a gorgeous meal with my girlies. (Don had work to do, so he stayed at home.)

Yesterday we had a repeat of an average Sunday avo hanging with my Expaterati crew at the Tanjong Beach Club. I returned home early evening, tired but happy, to find Don staring into his laptop, his face lit up by the glow of the screen in the dark living room. He didn’t see me.

Just as I was heading to the kitchen to make a green smoothie with vodka, there was a blood-curdling scream from the top of the house, and I watched Don running upstairs in nothing short of panic. “Max”, I thought, “But Don’s on it.”

Meandering past Don’s laptop, I happened to see Clara’s name on the screen in the form of an email. You will be shocked, dear readers, by what else I saw. Using my quick wits, I forwarded the email thread to myself, deleting the forward from Don’s sent box (I think).

So here is said thread, if you can bear to read it. I’ve switched the screenshots round for clarity, starting with Don’s mail. Sorry the text is a bit small – you may need to click on the images to get the full horror of it.

Don email

And this was Clara’s reply…

Clara email

 

 

After such a divine weekend, as I’m sure you will sympathise, this was not at all the Sunday evening I had hoped for. I didn’t mention anything to Don. I don’t know what to do. And as for that beep Clara, my cousin and trusted confidante all these years… She introduced Don and I, but both failed to mention that he was sloppy seconds.

Oh, and Max is fine. Just a little charred. Not even first degree burns really, despite what they said at Mount Elizabeth Hospital.

 

Happiest day of my life?! #whatevs & it's not like I've let myself go since then! But see how I am repaid for my hotness...

Happiest day of my life?! #whatevs
& it’s not like I’ve let myself go since then! But see how I am repaid for my hotness…


 

How Much You Spend On Your Kid’s Birthday Equals How Much You Love Them. End Of.

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 1 Comment

I’ve been feeling quite Maxed out (LOLs, pun totes intended!) after the weekend, which is hencely why I couldn’t get around to writing until now. Yes, my little Max turned the big Zero Seven, and the birthday yacht party organised by moi (and two remote assistants in the Philippines) went down like a house on fire aboard the Titanic, amped up on Veuve Click and Spotify, without the tragic sinking business. As I said before, I knew I had to push the boat out to match Milly’s fabulous yee-haw at the casino in Sentosa last year. And push that boat out, I soooooo did! Go, me!!!

I hired a mahusiv glamorous yacht and invited a few of Max’s little friendses (well, only the ones whose parents I know like to parté), as well as all my Expaterati girlies and our general gang. The catering was a hush-hush high-end arrangement, by one of the awesomest restaurants in Sing (can’t say which because they don’t want to dilute their brand by doing private events, and only did mine as a personal favour because I’m so hot). I flew in a Taiwanese DJ to rock the dance floor and, at Max’s request, had a Transformer costume theme. Because I was doing the donkey work, it seemed only fair that I amend the theme a teensy bit to Bikini Transformer costumes. Lord knows I heart a bikini party!!

So the result, as anyone who was there will testify, was nothing short of

EPIC.

It got to 3AM, and all the kids had fallen asleep on their iPads (which just goes to show that children can exercise self-regulation with Minecraft, contrary to recent flawed findings), but us grown-ups, we were just getting started! I was in Katy Perry heaven, doing my shockingly impressive Transformer moves all over that floating dance floor. Oh yeah, bring da beat back!! It’s amazing how much a little bit of practice can do. I only spent between six and 20 hours last week watching Transformer YouTubes, and yet my physical embodiment was alarmingly on the money. It was like I actually was an actual Transformer, dancing my vehicular behind off on a yacht. I know, incrediblé, isn’t it? My talents do seem to be limitless, but you know that already, of course, dear readers. My gratitude for your appreciation is almost as boundless as my talents.

There were two sliiiiiiightly sticky moments that marred my enjoyment of Max’s party. One was when Angel, our teenage house guest (my step-sister), approached me while I was rolling out my hottest Optimus Prime grooves and said, “Um, EJ, your C-string bikini is getting pulled sideways by your Transformer truck bit, and part of your um, vajazzling is kind of hanging out and it’s… sort of… dangling…”

I was quite annoyed by her abrupt interruption of my dancing, but it occurred to me how hard it must be for her; just a young girl, thrown so recently into a new environment, away from her mother (who can’t cope, hencely me selflessly taking her in), and everything she’s familiar with.

Then I thought, naaaaaaaaw.

So I told her, “Babes, eat some food ffs so that your brain can function properly, grow tf actually up, and get some life experience before you start lecturing adults on how they look. Because yooooo, honey, do not have a cloooooooooo!”

And that made her go away.

The other irksome thing (not that the interactification with Angel was irksome – I just told it like it is, I proclaimed my truth) was Liz. I noticed that, yet again, she was sniffing around after Don. Whenever she went to the bar, there he was. Whenever she went to the loo, there he was. Whenever she went up on the romantic fore-deck, there he was. She was constantly seeking him out, like a plague of husband-devouring locusts. Vile-scented locusts, at that, as you will know if you have read all my posts.

As a practitioner of gratitude and a dedicated yogi, it was not impossible for me to rise above this woman’s persistent, assaultative, uninvited attentions towards my husband, but I did have to take time out from dancing to do some chanting in a private place. Thusly I will forever resent her for taking me away from my only son’s seventh birthday in order to cleanse myself of her disgusting heinous intent. This will no doubt surface in her own chi and, relying on the universe to sort her out, I gave myself up to continuing to have an amazebobs night. Haha, I bet she didn’t! She didn’t even come in costume. So un-classy!

Free Anti-Ageing Techniques, For Expats and Non-Expats

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 5 Comments

I believe I may have mentioned once or twice, that expat wives can be very competitive. Cousin Clara says it’s about, “establishing a hierarchy in a mixed environment, wherein cultural norms such as class system are less clear-cut than among static populations”; but I think it’s more like Froo Froo at Tanjong Beach Club. She does that sniffing thing all dogs do. I won’t degrade her by going into details, but I think you know what I mean.

Anyhoo, today I was lunching with my Expaterati girlies – some friendses and some not so much – and a discussion emerged about personal anti-ageing preferences in the facial region. My totes babesome BFF Flo has had a fair old whack of interventions: regular meet-ups with Lady B, a touch of collagen, a few teensy implants, a little eye-lift, and some other minor bits and bobs. She is gorgeous. Trust me. Hot as.

Au contraire, Doom and Gloom Expat Wifey (why does she still get invited to our lunches??) shuns all beauty enhancements, and instead chooses the Abandon All Hope approach to physical signs of ageing.

As loyal readers will know, I espouse the Ladeee Luuuuuv view, that we ladies should be free to decide what, when, why and how we do whatevs we want with our appearance, as long as we look and feel our utmost hottest at all timeses. And we should totes support each other in those decisions, rather than put sistas down.

Me and the gals were therefore thusly being super supportive when we said to D & G that maybe she should consider doing something about her face; at least opting for waterproof mascara, given the realities of this climate (she seriously looks like an owl and I’m seriously not joking TBH). I feel mahusively sorry for her because I secretly know that her hus is heavily involved with his male PA (I’ve only told six other people, including Flo), so we were doing her a favour by trying to force her to make an effort. For her own sake, you know?! It’s what her Guardian Angel would have wanted.

In a way, we were just being the earthly embodiment of her Guardian Angel. At the time, I even formulated an intention to chant for her in my meditation space with the Buddha water feature and a nice Nag Champa burn, offering up these words: May the Universe throw forth eternal blessings to make Mrs Doom & Gloom look a lot better so that she can be a bit hot, namasté.

So I was serioso horrificated when D & G said to Flo, “I completely respect what you’ve done to your face, and your right to choose that. But I choose not to do those things, so you should respect my right not to. And no offence, but you don’t look your age, or anyone’s age, you just look like someone who has had all kinds of stuff done to your face. You basically look like everyone else who has Botoxed, collagened, and whatever elsed their faces beyond recognition. I don’t even know what you really look like!! Do you?!”

Weeeeellll, that was a step too far, babeses.

I was shocked (Flo was too, though you’d have to know her deep down to see it, due to the lack of facial cues), but I remained sufficiently in retention of my verbal and empathic skills to intervene.

“Hon”, I said, with my sweetest Kate Middleton smile, “Just because you choose to pay zero attention to your appearance, despite the fact that you’re probly pushing 49, and you’ve obviously had way too much sun on your face during your youth, it’s really quite unfair to judge others, ya get me? Partic when they look way hotter than you, and their husband isn’t screwing his dude personal assistant”…

Oopsy!! It just came out! Oh dear. All cool though because almost everyone there (except D & G herself) knew about it anyway. So that was fine.

D & G stared at me, with the weirdest look. It was like a combination of, “I hate you and I want you dead”, and “OMG, babes, thanks so much for letting me know!”

More the latter, I felt, so when she stood up to leave, it seemed right for me to give her a great big hug. People need warmth and intense suffocating closeness after hearing difficult news. I know that because of my six-month counselling training.

After my lovely hug, she left, and I was happy for two reasons: 1. I felt secure in the knowledge that I had done all I could to boost her self-esteem. And B) I wanted to get back to my pastrami Reuben – my only carb and mayo shots this week. No way I’m not going to enjoy that!

Once she was gone, we normal happy ladies had a nice chat about how we manage to look so young. I shared with them two of my amazing anti-ageing gems that are 100% free. Because I am v generous, I will share them with you too, dear readers.

The first one is to think of a beautiful female celebrity who’s at least ten years older than you. Fully appreciate that a ton of work and cash has gone into how she looks. And know that she will always be SO VERY MUCH older than you.

And that’s it! It’s basically my reformulation of Einstein’s theory of relativity, applied to ageing. You’re welcome!

My other genius tip is to say that you’re older than you are. For centuries, women have been making the ridic error of claiming to be younger than they are. Whyee?? If you say you’re younger, people are more likely to be looking at you, thinking, “Yowzer, she looks rough!”. Say you’re five or ten years older though, and they’ll be thinking totes the opposite, begging you to reveal the secrets of your amazebobs youthfulnessification. A great thing about this technique is that after you’ve said it a few times, you will start to partly believe it, so you can fully embrace the positive feedback you receive.

Then, unless you develop an as yet unclassified mental health disorder of believing your own age lie, you’ll also partly still not believe it, which will remind that you’re really 35 not 45 (or 50 not 60, 60 not 70, you get the pic). That’ll keep you totes aware of how young you actually are, in contrastation with the age you’ll be a decade from now.

All my girlies agreed that both ideas are incredibly wise. So it’s fair to say that this proves beyond reasonable doubt that if you follow these strategies, along with my previously provided beauty advice and my fashion go-tos, you can be as hot as me for many years to come. If only D & G read my blog. It could save her marriage. There’s just no helping some people. Shame.

 

Froo Froo in her dokini at Tanjong Beach Club. Even the dog is hotter than Mrs Doom & Gloom.

Froo Froo in her dokini at Tanjong Beach Club. Even the dog is hotter than Mrs Doom & Gloom.

 

“Expat Wife Looking For Affair Singapore” & Other Awesome Search Terms

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 4 Comments

Because I am highly technified (I’d call myself a geek, but everyone’s doing that these daisies, right babesies?), I take great interest in search engine optimisation. As part of my knowledge optimisation in search engine optimisation, I like to keep track of the search terms that bring delightful new readers into my online life, and I am going to give you an exclusive behind-the-scenes glimpse at my current collection.

(For those unfamiliar with WordPress – other website platforms are available – the following images are screenshots of the statistics function in the app. So where it says “Search Engine Terms”, those are the little groups of words that people type into Google or whatevs when they’re looking for stuff on the webby.)

 

1. What do you think… Should he be worried??

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2. There are a LOT of people out there Googling “footsie”

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 3. Ummm, why??

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4. Love this one. Must be REAL wives!! Not fakee wives.

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5. Surely not!

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6. Likeee : )

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7. Google this, babeses… 

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8. Expat women are NEVER bitches, and expats are NEVER selfish (note: another footsie search!)

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9. So sweet! This is presumably something to do with Valentine’s Day. Wonder what he came up with.

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10. And here it is!! Was this from an affairy wife, or from someone seeking an affairy wife?

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I’d like to dedicate this post to my oldest girlie friendeee for her bday – not oldest in person years, but oldest in friend years – who lives in the state of VA. She is in a permanent state of VA: Very Awesomeness. Luv ya, babes mwa mwa. Xx

Shocking Expat Unfoldments, Part Three

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 4 Comments

As loyal readers will know from the Shocking Unfoldments Part One and Part Two, a triumvirate (credit for that word to a gorgeous expat reader friend in India – thanks, babes!) of crappiness occurred last week. In order to keep my chi in balance, I have needed to deal with each horror in my own good time. Had I faced them all at once, I dread to think how gravely I could have neglected my punishing beauty and wellness regime. Of course, this degree of self-deception is not part of my modus operandi, but needs mustses.

Self-deception aside, Part Three really isn’t that bad because it can’t possibly be truesome. There must be a perfectly reasonable explanation for the naked pics of Liz on Don’s iCloud. Given our state of perpetual marital bliss, I am certain that an error has hereby occurred (like that other error where I didn’t win the blog competition – what tf were they thinking to not choose moi??).

So I will thusly share with you the next shocking unfoldment.

Having explained at length to the help how to delete items from Max’s iPad – specifically Breaking Bad and all the other vids that synced from Don’s iCloud – I decided to take matters into my own hands. I did this in the name of parenting excellence (and also to get some nice selfies of Max and I doing his iPad homework together, to demonstrate that I don’t outsource everything to the help).

Whilst being an excellent, homework-doing parent with Max, I happened to accidentally click on iPhotos, and there before my astounded eyes was… Liz and her enormous fanny!!! And not in the American sense of the word! What fresh merry hell is this, I thought! Literally, her whole huge snatch, just out there!!

Being the calm, open, liberal person that I am, I dropped the iPad, let out a gasp and a shriek upon seeing Liz so intimately depicted, and ran from the room, arms flailing elegantly. Max clicked back to Minecraft, happily enough.

Once the irritant had left for school, I got hold of his iPad again, and this time had a good shufti at the synced photos. Dear readers, my horrification was unprecedented. I saw far more of Liz’s snatch than any living being ought to see. Based on the photographic evidence, I am concerned for her health. She is obviously suffering from vagenitical cunticulitis, in a bad way.

Haha!! Mega-LOLs!!! It just makes me laugh now! What is particularly hilario about all of this is that these pornographic photos clearly reveal that Liz is a deluded husband-stalker with some major issues.

Anyhoo. What I did was delete the offending material, emailing one to myself of course, should I need it when I next see Liz. I decided there was no point in addressing the issue with Don. No need to upset the apple cart, am I right, dear readers? Yes, I am.

Then I had my fabulous glamour photo shoot, to give Don the pics as a Valentine’s gift next week. The photos are, though I am not one too blow my own horn, totes AMAZEBOBS. Much more tasteful than Liz’s grotesque effigies. Take that, Liz!!

I had better dash off now because I need to do my daily 10,000 steps, and I’ve only clocked up 3,872 so far today. Can’t fall behind the other girlies in the Fitbit stats! These expat women are just so competitive!! It’s ok though because I wanted to have a good long walk in my fabulous new shoes. They look super-comfortable, don’t they?

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Sneaky Snogging on Airplane?!

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 8 Comments
Holiday snaps of Vagi Wraps

Holiday snaps of Vagi Wraps

Well, babeses, I’m writing to you from the airport because, although I was having the best holiday everrrrrr, like I always do, it was also pretty crap. The encounter I had on the first day with my least favourite member of the Singapore Expaterati got me off to a bad start, and then the children were driving me over the edge, without our helper with us. Furthermore, spending so much time with the little irritants was in direct contravention of Item Six of my New Year’s resolutions.

Then yesterday Don said something about having lots of work to catch up with, so I thought, right! You get back to work, and I’ll get back to my proper holiday. Yayay!! Can’t wait to be home, rollerblading down Orchard Road, after a few glasses of Veuve Click, with the wind cascading through my fabulous flaming locks! Singas, look out! Momma’s comin’ home : )!!! До Свидания, Boragrad!

It’s a bit later and we’re on the plane back. I love using the internet on flights, just because I can. Plus, I wanted to let you know ASAP about the shocking revelation that has just revealed itself to mine eyes. You’re not going to believe this, but I SWEARS it’s truesome.

So. Doom and Gloom Expat Wifey’s husband, Fred, and his (male!!) PA are on our flight, but they haven’t spotted me as I’m quite inconspicuous when I want to be, and we’re sitting a few rows behind them (no, not in Economy!). Right after take off, they ordered champagne, clinked glasses, had a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching (haha!!), and then… They snogged! OMG!! As if swinging among the Expaterati wasn’t shocking enough! Now we have this married expat chap having a flingthing with his blokie assistant!! What else is going on in our very midst? I dread to think, dear readers, I really do.

It’s no wonder though because that wife of his is a mega-drag and if I was a gay guy, Mr PA would well be on my wuddya?-hells-to-the-ya list!!

I’d better go because it’s only a short flight and I need to watch at least one film, as well as find something from the inflight shopping mag to buy that I don’t already have. Tricky!

Ooooh, tuna wasabi yum yum!

Ooooh, tuna wasabi yum yum!

Merry Expat Exmas Mega-Fiasco

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 7 Comments

Well, dear readers, members of the Expaterati, Ladies and Gentlemen, I hope you had a Merry Chrimbo, because I am sorry to say that I totes did not. Despite all my efforts to be good this year, and to give my family a lovely day, Santa basically dropped a bag of flaming poop on my doorstep.

The helper had the morning off, so I made everyone a beautiful breakfast of scrambled eggs with smoked salmon, and mimosas. Well, I supervised. Even though he is almost 7 years old, Max is still miserably bad at cracking eggs, so he got a lot of shell in the mix. Then he had the heat turned up too high, which made the scrambled eggs into murderous lumps of orange fishy sponge. Ugh.

Mummy was in charge of the mimosas. She opened the champagne far too brusquely, and the pop made Froo Froo dog pee all over the floor. Mummy then proceeded to pour herself and Don huge measures of champas vs orange juice, but gave me only the tiniest bit of bubbles, with mostly pulp. Not only that, she insisted on making fresh OJ, which meant that I had to spend several hours of my Christmas Day cleaning the juicer! I had been hoping to bust a chill after breakfast, maybe catch some rays and a swim on the roof terrace. Thanks for ruining that, Mummy!

Max and Milly were of course completes over-excited about opening their presents, and their awful noise also scuppered my chill plans. By midday I was worn out, so I went back to bed while Don sloped off to his cigar club, and Mummy and the help took the irritants to church.

When everyone got back, we did our obligatory Skype sessions with the family back home. I could really have done with more sleep, but I made the sacrifice, in keeping with this season of giving.

I don’t know why I did though, because all I got in return for my efforts was a ton of grief about the presents the helper had ordered on Amazon. I told her quite plainly to get pretties for the women, and toys and gadgets for the children and men. That’s pretty clear lah, ya?? Ya, lah, you agree, of course!

Apparently, my instructions, when translated into Tagalog, became crotchless underwear for the ladies (including my sister who we all know only wears huge off-white pants), and a selection of these for the men… and for the children! ARGH!! What now, now?? So instead of nice thank yous, I got repeatedly blasted, with each Skype sesh! Well ho bloody ho to you lot back in ole Blighty! As if the children had any idea what an Eva is!! Please, peeps. It has only just come out. Most adults don’t even know about it. (I certainly didn’t.) Cousin Clara the psychologist was the only person who didn’t completes lay into me. She said that my “gift-giving process was fascinating in a perverse way”. So, the best feedback I got was being called a pervert. Fab.

After the calls, I had no choice but to strongly reprimand the helper, and true to form, she immediately burst into tears. That A. Pissed me off, and secondly, made Milly start kicking Froo Froo. Mummy (oh SO empathic, aren’t you?!) grabbed Mills and the helper, and took them away to the upstairs back living room to do god knows what. Max didn’t notice any of it because he was totes immersed in Minecraft la-la land, and Don didn’t even look up from his Economist.

Now one would think, dear readers, that that would be sufficient ruination of my Chrimbo; that I had suffered sufficely from the slings and arrows of outrageous expat exmas fortune. Hells to the NO! Turns out that I had not!!

For the evening meal, I had gone to the major trouble in October of phoning Raffles Hotel to book a fabulous table for their buffet (incl. free-flowing Veuve Click), for Mummy, Don and I. It truly is a gorgeous-amundo setting, and it was supposed to be the perfect ending to our special family xmas.

That, it was not. Mummy was in a foul mood and hardly spoke. Until, that is, she was on her third glass of VC (after two G & T aperitifs), which is when all hell broke loose.

Raising her glass, she began to speak: “Well Emma-Jane, and you too, Don, I would like to say thank you so much for a truly delightful Christmas… For your wonderful generosity of spirit, and your warm hosting…”

“Oh Mum-ski”, I blushed prettily, like Kate Middleton, “There’s really no need to thank us…”

“No, what I was going to say is that I would like to thank you, but in actual fact, I am utterly appalled by the two of you. As if this trip wasn’t bad enough, Hilda has told me everything, and I’m absolutely disgusted!”

[WHAT?! Who the eff is Hilda??!]

Fighting through my shock at Mummy’s bizarre and totes unexpected outburst, I looked at Don to see what he was going to do to defend me. He stood up and went to the buffet.

“What on earth are you talking about, and who the bloody hell is HILDA??!”, I managed to say, after a quick touch-base with my higher power.

“Hilda, stupid girl, is your helper! She has a name, you know?!”

Oh! Hilda!! Right, that’s her name. Of course. Lololol!! In those moments I was terribly worried that Mummy had dementia too, that she had invented a mystical all-seeing being, and that I would have to get Don’s PA to find her a home too. Twice in one week! That would have been pushing it with the PA’s goodwill – even at this time of year.

“Yes, ok, I know who Hilda is. But I still have no clue what you’re on about, Mother. And I find it humungously ungrateful – even deeply abusive – that you would attack your daughter like this on Christmas Day!”, I told her, firmly but kindly.

“It’s just rude, Mummy. Rude!”, I added for good measure.

“Is it?? Is it really, Emma-Jane?”, she continued, insisting on using my full name just to be a big B.

“Hilda has told me about your drinking, that you’re drunk virtually every day and night, that you’re never home with the children, and that you SMOKE! Smoking, Emma-Jane?? Grow up!”

While I was putting my side of the story across, explaining that it’s terribly stressful being a trailing spouse and expat mother, constantly straining to adapt, she had the nerve to keep spewing.

“You are a terrible mother! Milly has serious anger issues, Max is addicted to Minecraft, and Don!! Do you even know what your husband is up to, while you’re swanning about?!”

By this point, I had been rendered speechless, for possibly the first time in my 38 years on this planet. I think even my hair had de-pouffed.

“I’ll tell you what Hilda said, shall I? Not only does Don have a drawer full of un-mentionables, but he is involved with another woman, at least one other woman. Where do you think he disappeared off to today? The cigar club wasn’t even open!!”, she hissed at me.

“Did you know that, Emma-Jane?? Did you? So, you are a terrible mother and a failed wife. Thank goodness you have your career to fall back on… Oh, no, wait a minute, you have no career either!! Look at yourself! On the brink of 40, and this is all you have to show? Very little, Emma-Jane. Very, very little.”

At last the tirade came to a close. I stared into space, as sweetly as I could, given the trying circumstances.

Don came back from the buffet.

“More champas, Glammy Gammy?”, he asked.

“Yes”, replied Mummy with a smile, “Yes, I think I will. Why not? It is Christmas, after all.”

“Cheers!”, Mummy said, once the champagne had been poured.

“So Don, my darling, Emma-Jane and I have been having a little chat in your absence, and we’ve come to the realisation that I’ve been away too long, and the rest of the family need me to go home. I won’t be coming with you to Boracay, very unfortunately, but I hope you have a lovely time. I’ll be leaving in the morning. I’ve decided to stay here at Raffles tonight, so as not to get under your feet for any longer than necessary. I’ll pop by tomorrow to say goodbye to Hilda and the children.”

“What a shame, Gammy!”, Don said, like he had just lost a few quid on the horses, “We’ll miss you awfully. But of course, needs must!”

Yes, I thought, in the cab back to Emerald Hill Road: needs bloody well must. Thank phewy that judgmental, insensitive, helper-loving woman won’t be joining us on our fabulous holiday in paradise. Branjelina and their brood stayed in the exacto same sea-view villa we’ll be in this time tomorrow, so you go home, Mother, and enjoy your lovely rainy New Years in suburban London. Needs must, sweetie Mum-ski. Whatevs.

So, merry flaming poop in a bag expat exmas, Expaterati peeps. May all your dreams come true.

FMAWG* with Petite Asian Girlies

/ Emma-Jane Austen-Jones / 3 Comments

Something which is just so funny to me is the phenomenon (phenomena? Argh, lol!!) of large middle-aged white guys “dating” tiny Asian ladies. Come on chaps, who do you think you’re kidding? I think we all know what this is about.

It is about you fellows not being able to get or keep a Western woman, so you come over here, thinking you’re god’s gift, and get yourself a little local girlfriend who will put up with stupid, boring you. You, your sunburnt belly (although, to be fair, there are thin ones too; in fact, in our last country there was a thin one, an embassy chap, and his wife was v gorgeous, sylphlike and incredibly intelligent, so it just goes to show that it’s not about looks or intellect), and your ever-bushier ear hair. Do not think for a moment that you are fooling anyone.

Do not think, either, that you will hang onto your petite Asian girlie. Once she has the security she needs from you, she will be off. You might well have paid for that boob job and widened eyelids, but when she goes, the boobs and eyelids go with her, darling. (Of course, then you will probably just find yourself a replacement. Plenty more gold-diggers petite Asians in the sea LOL!)

It’s just funny to me, that’s all. Hahaha!

It’s funny because I am 200% certain that this would never happen with Don. He wouldn’t recognise a come-on if it was right under his nose. And prostitutes! Ha, like he would pay for it!! Plus, anyway, he’s not that fat.

This article, au contraire, is not in the least bit funny, “Expat wives losing hubbies to Asian women a big worry”. ARGH!

It’s happening more and more. Disgraceful behaviour, chaps.

On a totally separate subject, the Gucci Fall handbag collection is calling my name. I can’t decide which one though. Unlike the pool towels and the clubs, I had better hurry up and choose. Don goes to Dubai next week. Must get my skates on, so I can tell him which one I need.

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* FMAWG: Fat Middle-Aged White Guys