How Shocking Is This?!

Well something dreadfully shocking has happened today. What a summer of shocks this is turning out to be!! Even more shocking than my Shocking Expat Unfoldments, Part One, Two, and Three, and they were pretty damn shocking.

I was in the midst of taking all the pricey stuff I was going to sell off the classifieds (now that I don’t need the cash, hurrah!!) when Flo messaged me, saying, “OMG, have you heard????”

Now Flo, much as I love her (despite our difficult conversation last week), is a major goss, so I assumed she was going to tell me about the latest Expaterati marital eff-up.

I responded: “Do you mean about that neighbour of mine who caught her husband in bed with another neighbour of mine? It’s an Emerald Hill Road expat epidemic of epic proportions argh!!”

Then she sent me a link. To this…

FAKE NEWS STORY

Isn’t that shockingly shocking, dear readers?! And her such an accomplished swimmer, too. Oh dearie dearie me.

I must fly as I’ve got a hair appointment. Chlorine is just so dreadful for my locks. That’s why we have salt water in our rooftop pool, but I suppose in a condo they can’t choose the chemical components of their pool water. Life is harsh and brutal like that sometimes, even on this hallowed glittering isle of never-ending sunshine.


Please note: This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to reality is entirely coincidental. See About Page for further disclaimer.

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The One Where I Confront the Lowlife Ho

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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…

Woo Hooooo I’m Rolling In It!!!

I was up to my eyelashes this morning planning our last-minute goodbye party for this weekend, when the phone rang. It’s actually the pre-goodbye party because I want to have another one at the Tanjong Beach Club the weekend after, but this pre-goodbye goodbye is at our house beautiful abode. The packers arrive next Monday, so it’s the last opportunity for an awesome blow-out on our glamorous roof terrace. I’m not really feelin’ it right now – my chi is not so much in a partying space – but once I’ve ruined Liz’s life (scheduled for tomorrow) I should be hot to trot.

Anyhoo, so my phone rang and it was my father’s lawyer. Haven’t heard from her in a good long while. She gave me the best news everrrr actually. Apparently before my father went proppa loopy, he decided to leave the bulk of his sizeable assets to myself and my sister, while he is still alive. That was what he’d always said he wuzgunna do, but being such a wuzgunna guy, I didn’t think it would actually happen… So how AMAZEBOBS izzat?!! Woohoo, huh babeses!!! I can totes keep that Burberry tote!!

I’m in such a great mood now that I’m going shopping. Maybe a champagne lunch with my girlies later. Nothing much happening at home anyway. Don is being all weird and doing tons of “fun stuff” with the irritants. They’ve all gone to Legoland in Malaysia. He didn’t even take the help! Yesterday it was Universal Studios for the gazillionth time (god how I loathe that place). He’s also buying them gifts left right and centre. Some seriously high-ticket items! He got Milly these Tiffany ear-rings: 18k rose gold with diamonds. What now, now?? (And excuse me, but where’s my gift?!)

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He went equally OTT for Max and got him an iWatch, but not just that! He even bothered to choose him a strap. It’s insania! This level of attention to detail is completely unlike him when it comes to the children. Work, yes. Irritants, noooooooo. I can only assume that he has lost his mind. Liz must have finally sucked all the sanity out of him. Care muchly, do I?? No, not a whole wad muchly.

strap001_grande

The Hellish Hells of Relocation

I am desperately sorry for neglecting you, dear readers. It has been suuuuuuuch a busy time. I’ve had to do so many dull things related to the move, not least finishing the insurance inventory for the shipment. Counting clothes (and, on a separate not, what happened to the Counting Crows?) takes an increbibé long time! Apparently, I own 325 pairs of shorts, and for the sake of precision I wanted to sub-categorise each type of garment, so I didn’t just put “Shorts x 325”. No. I sub-categorised into Hot Pants, Elegant Shorts, Resort Wear Shorts, Boho Glamour Shorts, Long-Ish Shorts, Short-Ish Shorts (excluding hot pants), and Tiny Shorts (also at the exclusion of any of the afore-mentioned categories).

I did this with all my other clothes, accessories, and shoes too. I have hardly slept for days. And at the same time, I’ve had a whole ton of other stuff to do. I’ve needed to liaise with the dreaded relocation agency re booking into serviced accommodation next week; AND I’ve been finalising our last-minute Asia trips before we return to miserable weather. So next month we’re going to Langkawi – staying at the Four, of course – and then to a fabulous birthday party in Phuket. It’s for one of my Expaterati Girlies who I haven’t seen for yonks, and it promises to be quite fabulous, as she herself is beyond fabulous. It’s a shame that the irritants are coming (not to mention Don), but the help will have moved on by then. We lose her in a couple of weeks. There’s another thing that’s been v stressful: constantly speaking to her potential new employers and having to be all Nice. The first few times, I told them about my suspicions that she has some sort of online business which involves her wearing racy undergarments, but then I realised that was just causing me to have to speak to more annoying people, so I stopped.

Angel’s flight back home to Oz is all booked, thanks to moi. Why can’t a sixteen (almost seventeen!) year-old woman book her own flight? Since when did human beings take so long to grow up?? Ridic. I mean, I out-sourced it to my remote assistant in the Philippines, but that still involved sending an email.

I’ve also been doing some high-value shoppage, as a means of obtaining cash. Handbags and such. I acquired a divine one last week from the Burbster. The point of my endeavour is to buy things and then sell them on in order to build up my cash reserves, but the Burb one in particular, I’m not sure I can bear to part with… Perhaps I’ll keep it. Surely just one can’t hurt.

I’ve been Skyping with Mummy lately because I will need her help with the irritants if we are definitely returning to the UK. Yes, I’ve had to be the grown-up there and swallow my pride about her terrible treatment of me last Christmas. Honestly, how much can one person take?! Even a person as highly resourceful and resilient as me. At least Froo Froo dog is taking all this in her stride. She seems to be oblivious to what’s going on. She’s happier than she has ever been, in fact. How dreadfully sad that her life is about to be utterly changed without her having any control or say in the matter, but I suppose it’s a saving grace that she is blissfully unaware. Oh, to be a dog!

Speaking of dogs, before I get back to my busy tedium I will share with you that I have scheduled my confrontation with Liz for the end of this week. I can hardly contain my excitement. You will love it, dear readers, and I promise not to spare you any of the gruesome details.

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How could I part with this beauty, babeses??

Revenge Phase Three: Don (Need your help with this…)

Since my twofold betrayal, I have come to realise that I have few truly trusted confidantes other than you, dear readers. Because you are so precious to me, and I value your opinions, I would like your input for Revenge Phase Three: Don.

I have therefore thusly come up with a list of possible ways in which to proceed. Do feel free to add your own ideas. I need a few more, but I’m so busy with all this revenge and relocation business that it’s hard to focus on anything properly. At least tonight I’m taking some time out to hang with my girlies. Oyster Bar Ladies’ Night, yeehaaaaaa!! Hope to see some of you there, babeses!

 

Revenge Phase Two: Liz

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.

 

 

Revenge Phase One: Clara

Apart from all the bad stuff (of which I can’t even think of offhand right now, so it can’t be that bad), the Internet is by far the bestest thing to have happened to humanity everrrrrr. One of the things I totes <3 about it is how easy it is to find people. Isn’t it great? People put everything online! We just throw ourselves up there, which is a wonderful illustration of mankind’s generosity of spirit. What’s awesome as well is that, if someone has a really distinctive name, it’s even easier to find them, without needing to know anything about their life.

Take, for example, the name Chilly Mallone. That’s a very unusual name, right? Right, babeses. It’s the sort of name that one can remember, over the rolling waves of years. I have remembered that name.

One Friday evening in June, about 12 years ago, I hooked up with Clara for drinks after work. We met in the City because that was the most convenient for me and Clara knows how I feel about taking the tube for more than a few stops, especially in the summer when it’s sweltering down there (why can’t the tube be more like Singapore’s MRT? Can it be so very difficult to just scrap the whole thing and start again??), and quite extraordinarily odiferous. She arrived uncharacteristically late and flustered, so I was already on my third wine. Not sure what I was doing… These days I’d be ploughing through the Facebook newsfeed, but then… Who knows?! Sudoku maybe? Wtf did we do with our time back then??

She plonked a bundle of files onto the table just as I was lifting my glass, and therefore thusly a collision was caused wherein my drink toppled over, and wine poured hither and thither. In an effort to save her bundle from wetness, she clumsily grabbed the files, sending pages cascading onto the floor. She didn’t apologise for spilling my drink, nor did she thank me for helping her to pick up her stuff. Looking back, I should have seen her true nature then. The trouble is my own caring, positive qualities – always preferring to see the good in others. As I gave her what I had collected from the floor, I happened to see a page of case notes, with the header “Chilly Mallone, Age 7”.

“Golly”, I said, “What an unusual name! Is that one of your patients?”

“Emma-Jane, please just give me that. You know I don’t disclose information about my work”, came Clara’s reply. She has always been so very precious about Her Work.

“Yeah sure cool, chillax babe. I know you don’t. All’s I was saying is that Chilly Mallone is like a pretty funny name. But you must see some pretty funny kids, I guess, at that clinic. I don’t know why you never tell me anything. I might be able to help with some ideas. I’m awesome at keeping secrets.”

“Funny? Funny?! Is that what you think?! There is absolutely nothing funny about children with emotional and behavioural difficulties caused by horrendously traumatic experiences that you can’t even begin to imagine.”

I must’ve looked very hurt indeed by this insult to my powers of imagination because Clara softened, saying, “Look, it’s been a long, stressful week, and I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. There was a bit of an emergency. But I’m here now, so let’s just have a chat… talk about something other than work. How are your wedding plans coming along? Did you get the venue you wanted?”

I had managed to book the fabulous exclusive venue that very day, for 13 months’ time, and as she was clearly so interested, we spent the rest of the evening talking about my wedding, my dress, the eight bridesmaids’ dresses, the honeymoon, and of course, my hen night. Clara was agog. Which, with hindsight, was a bit strange. Why would she have spent hours listening to me when I was preparing to marry the man she had so recently given up? Bizarro. It’s completely confounding that anyone would dedicate that much time listening to another person – even a person as fascinating as me – with no gain whatsoever to themselves.

So last week, while I was getting over the terrible shock of Email Gate, that evening in the City came back to me, bringing with it the name Chilly Mallone. It resounded in my beautiful brain, over and over, as if my subconsciosity was trying to send me a message. Then I realised what it was telling me. I hopped online to Google Chilly, and voila, there he was. Very easy for someone as resourceful as me. I contacted him to present him with a proposal. Offering him a large sum of money (I have started selling my valuables and am doing rather well), I suggested that he make allegations about Clara and a number of “inappropriate acts” with him when he was her patient. Chilly was a little reluctant at first (a little chilly in fact, mega-LOLs), so I offered him a larger sum and that resolved his ambivalence in my favour.

Now it’s just a matter of time before Clara gets suspended pending investigation. Where kids are involved, the UK authorities are normally pretty swift, and a witch hunt against a child psychotherapist is a cause that captures the proles’ hearts and minds, no doubt, even one with Clara’s untainted reputation. Moreso, in fact!

So that’s done. Next to Liz. I spent most of the weekend pondering Phase Two. I think I am nearly there.

Medea. There's a chick who knew what to do about betrayal.

Medea. There’s a chick who knew what to do about betrayal.

A Dish Best Served Cold

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