Trevor Belshaw Author

Author of Out of Control

Month: April 2019

The Diary of an Aspiring Adulteress

Part One

14th March 2013

How do you start a diary I wonder? I’ve never kept one before, not a serious journal at least. I’ve often thought about keeping one but I’d be mortified if Gary the Grump found it and read my innermost thoughts.

He thinks he knows everything about me just because we’ve been married for eighteen years, but in truth he knows very little and understands even less. Oh, he can find his way around the intimate parts of my body and he knows to keep well clear if I’m in one of my moods, but he doesn’t have a clue who the real me is. I hate the way he calls them, my moods, as though he’s always full of the joys of Spring. At least I have the excuse of an excruciating period or the beginnings of a migraine when I snap. He gets unbearably shitty if his precious football team loses, and God help us all if England aren’t doing very well at the cricket.

 He thinks he knows which TV shows I like, (the ones I get to see when there isn’t a conflict with the sports channel,) but he doesn’t have a clue what I Sky Plus and watch when he’s at the pub or nursing a Sunday morning hangover in bed. He has no idea what I dream about, what I think, or what I do all day.

He’s convinced that I vote Labour because he does, but I’ve never voted for them once. I actually voted for the Rubber Chicken party at one election and I’d have been quite happy had they got in.

Gary still hasn’t worked out that if I nod my head when he’s screaming at the TV during Question Time it doesn’t mean I agree with him. It’s actually far more likely to mean that I agree with the politician who almost caused him to have a seizure. Gary has always been arrogant like that. He assumes that he wears the trousers in our house but in actual fact the decision-making process is shared equally. He decides what we should do about Libya, oil prices and the EU and I make the everyday decisions, like, what we buy, where we buy it, how much we put away for a rainy day, who we buy our gas from, who’s offering the best mortgage deal … It works out perfectly really.

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The Diary Of an Aspiring Adulteress

Part Two

I’ve decided to turn this into a weekly diary. My everyday life is so boring that it would be pointless making it a daily one. If I’m lucky I’ll just about cram enough into a full week to make a worthwhile entry. There is also the fact that The Grump might find it strange that I’m spending so much time on the laptop. I normally only go onto the Internet to order new refills for the fridge, water filter, or buy the odd book from Amazon. If my life story should suddenly become more entertaining, I’ll start doing twice weekly updates. I can always tell him I’ve joined Mumsnet.com. He’ll think I’ve gone all radical.

I suppose I’d better start by introducing myself properly. You’ll need to know a little bit about me if we’re going to be sharing my innermost thoughts.

My name is Isla Ferry and I’ve been married for eighteen years to The Grump, aka, Gary Ferry. (He tries to make out he’s distantly related to the singer, Bryan Ferry, but his mum told me the first time I met her that he isn’t.)  When we decided to get married, I fully intended adding my maiden name to The Grump’s in order to make a posh sounding double barrelled name. The problem was, my family name is Whyte and it didn’t take long for me to realise the years of torment I’d be letting myself in for if I were to become Isla Whyte-Ferry. I had enough jokes made up about my name when I was at school without adding to the misery.

I’m thirty-nine years old and rapidly approaching forty. I have no idea how this happened as the last time I looked I was twenty-seven. Life crept up behind me one morning and screamed ‘Hey, it’s time for a midlife crisis.’ I’ll never forget that moment, I was cleaning the toilet bowl at the time.

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Easter

Easter

Hi Emma,

I hope you got a lie in after Carmel’s break up party last night. I managed to get an extra hour, so got up about twelvish. I didn’t feel too bad considering the amount of booze I put away. I can’t remember getting home, but worryingly, Mum found a pair of men’s underpants in the porch this morning. All my clothes are in a pile on the chair near my bed, so I know I arrived home fully dressed. Who was that bloke I was talking to, late on? I know I snogged him outside the loo, but that’s as much as I can remember. Was he okay? Don’t tell me I snogged a minger. My street cred isn’t what it was since that tart, Olivia, told everyone in Slappers night club, that I had crabs. I know it must have looked like I was scratching at nits, but it was those knickers I got from Ali’s market stall last week, they had some dodgy stitching and were irritating me all night. I’m going to take them back on Saturday. I paid a bloody fiver for those; Ali can do one, I’m not wearing seconds. I ended up going commando in the end, which was very risky in that short dress I was wearing. I had a bit of a rash round my bits next morning, though that could be down to the fact that my razor is blunt. I think Gran’s been using it again. I don’t know why she insists on having a Brazilian at her age. Her pubes are like a Brillo pad: she needs a chainsaw to trim them really.

Poor Gran, she’s starting to feel her age a bit now. She’s in her 80s, so doing really well, but her knees are giving way and she’s struggling with the stairs now. When she stands up or sits down her knees crack so loudly that you’d think you were down at the rifle range. Mum says we’ll have to move her downstairs soon. We have a room at the back that’s only used to keep Dad’s knock off fruit and veg out of the sight of prying eyes.

Gran wasn’t keen on the idea at first, but changed her mind when she found out that Dad didn’t like the idea either. Dad said he’d have a heart attack carting all his stuff upstairs to Gran’s room. Gran said she’d like to see that and asked Mum to point the indoor security camera at the stairs so she could record it and watch it over and over again.

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Brexshit

Hi Emma,

I’ve just been listening to Dad and Gran arguing about Brexit, or should I say, the lack of it. Remember I told you about all the arguments in our house when we first had the referendum back in 2016? Well, we’re still having the same old rows. It’s like Groundpig day. No one has changed their opinion in the slightest. Dad still thinks we should stay in the European Union and that everyone who wants to leave is a racist, insular, narrow minded, myopic Nazi. Gran said that was a compliment and reckons Dad is a weak minded, spineless, yellow bellied. commie traitor and should be shot as a Quisling collaborator.

I didn’t get why Gran bought up the fact that Dad enjoys taking part in pub quizzes during a political argument, so I looked the word up on Google and it seems that Quisling was a Norwegian bloke who took the side of the Nazis in the war. That puzzled me a bit, because if both their arguments are correct, they should be on the same side.

Even Mum gets involved at times. She said that If four ex-Prime Ministers and that nice Nick Clegg, who was nearly Prime Minister, think we should stay in the EU, then it’s good enough for her. She’s worried that if we leave, she might not be able to spend the 20 Euro note, left over from the day out to France she had with the Clicking Needles, knitters’ group, last year.

I’m a bit worried about it all too if I’m honest, I mean, if we leave Europe, we won’t belong to a continent anymore and it will cost a fortune to reprint all those atlases. Anyway, I want to go to Malaga this summer and if we aren’t in Europe I could be classed as stateless, like that ISIS bride, and that might make it a bit tricky until we sort all the maps out.

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Feminist Chat

Hi Emma,

How’s the jogger’s nipple? I hate that, I got it once when I wore that hessian blouse without a bra to Bryony Chalmers’ end of engagement party. I was really popular with the lads that night but Christ, my nipples felt like they’d been chewed on by a starving buck toothed Piranha. I used up three-six-packs of Greek style yoghurts trying to cool them down.

That bastard, Simon, my ex, put my name down for the wet t-shirt competition at Tossers night club. The lousy sod said I’d be a shoo in with my cast iron nips.

Gran’s been giving us a lecture on how tough life was back in the 1960s tonight. It all started when Dad came home from work saying he was going to see the doctor about getting a few days off. Mum got all worried, she doesn’t like the idea of dad being on the sick. The last time he had a few days off he didn’t go back for twenty years.

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The Meditating Monk

Today, the Independent newspaper is carrying a story about the perfectly preserved body of a Buddhist monk that has been found in Mongolia. One Buddhist academic maintains that the monk, still sitting in the lotus position, may not be dead but might be in a state of deep mediation.

Now, as some of you know, I’m not one to be taken in by religious relics. I wasn’t fooled when a ‘genuine,’ nail, from the crucifixion of Jesus was put up for sale on Ebay, nor was I convinced by the splinter from the cross that was being offered by the same seller. (Not least because I had already bought one from a street market seller when I was in Turkey, and the one I’d haggled for was made of a much darker wood.) I was sorely tempted to purchase one of the thirty six, Messiah’s foreskins that were offered to me on the same holiday, but in the end I didn’t succumb, I mean, Jesus only had one foreskin removed, how could I be sure which one of them was the genuine article? I could have ended up with Judas’ prepuce and that wouldn’t have been half as valuable. I suppose, in a way they may all have been genuine, he was a supreme healer, after all. I just don’t think he’d have put up with a rabbi following him around with a sharp knife waiting to snip the latest growth.

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