by John Ritchie
“Roger. You’ll be nice to the Fosdykes, won’t you?”
“Of course, Darling, charm personified. But where did this ridiculous idea of going on holiday with them come from?”
“That was Fiona. She thought it would cement our relationship.”
“God help us! I mean, I can see how setting her and Bruce in concrete would improve our relationship. We could have them interred in a bridge abutment on the M4.”
“I thought you said you were going to be nice?”
“Well that is nice, Janet, compared to a car park in Crawley. Mind you, anything is nice compared to a car park in Crawley. I suppose I had better open some white to breathe and put the Claret in the fridge. When are they arriving?”
“Ah good. Just enough time to let the dogs out to sow some anti-personnel mines on the lawn.”
“What about Camping?” Roger turned his head to blow his cigar smoke away from Fiona and into the breeze, which ensured she got most of it anyway.
“You know the Call of the Wild and all that malarkey.”
“Washing in cold water is so good for the skin, don’t you think. Straight out of the tent and into the Tarn. Fifty yards out, fifty yards back and a good rub down with a rough towel. Gives you glow like nothing else. On with the kilt and an Aran sweater and porridge wi’ a pinch of sea-salt for breakfast.”
“Absolutely! Go commando. No knickers to wash and you can just settle yourself in a bit of bracken whenever you feel the need. Janet takes Baby Wipes in her sporran, but I make do with a fistful of whatever’s to hand. More wine, Fiona?”
“Well, I can imagine, Bruce, how disappointed you must have been when Andrew didn’t show any aptitude for Stamp Collecting, but I‘m sure that isn’t your only interest?” The way her daughter’s future father-in-law had been staring into her cleavage convinced Janet that she was right. She used her usual tactic in such situations and emptied her wine glass over the crotch of Bruce’s trousers.
“Oh, God! I’d better get these off. Perhaps you’d soak them for me, Janet, before they stain. I’ll come indoors with you.”
“Well that went as well as I expected.”
Roger closed the front door as the Fosdykes drove away.
“Good job I had my old kilt handy. You made a right mess of Bruce’s cavalry twill. Not like you to be so clumsy.”
“What did you say to, Fiona, Roger? She looked to be in a state of shock.”
“Oh, we were just talking about going on holiday.”
“Really. Well, she’s told me they have decided to go to her sister’s in Dorset instead of going away with us.”
Janet fondled Roger’s bottom and whispered in his ear.
“Well done, Darling. Fancy a glass of Claret in bed.”
“Good idea, but I’ll leave my pyjama trousers off, just in case you spill any.”
John Ritchie writes for fun. Just as well, no one would pay him.