Annus Horribilis: Diary of a Nobody

By Roni Askey-Doran

At the lowest point in her life, Kirsten Smith wakes up under a lantana bush on New Year’s Day. Determined to reinvent herself, she vows to rise above her worst moment. Throughout the year, Kirsten and her best friends are flung into a hysterical romp through life; their mishaps and adventures ultimately force them to question themselves and their perceptions of love, beauty, sex, men and even their friendship. Hilarious and heart-breaking, Kirsten’s year of self-renovation culminates in an enchanting love triangle, an unexpected new family, and a surprising new career.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roni Askey-Doran
• Release date: Apr 5, 2015
• ISBN: 9780975760079

Roni Askey-Doran

Tasmanian born Roni Askey-Doran has spent her life seeking adventure, happiness and inner peace. A gypsy at heart, Roni has a wonderful sense of humor which shines through in all her work. Filled with passion, powered by her desire to tell her stories using vivid lexiconic imagery, Roni loves to share her experiences. Roni has traveled through 46 countries over the past three decades. Despite her nomadic lifestyle, she is an accomplished chef, a talented wordsmith, an avid gardener, and her wandering feet dance to more than one beat. Roni currently resides in a bamboo shack on a remote beach in South America with three cats, two opossums, a non-venomous Granadilla snake, some tree frogs, a large green iguana and several species of tropical birds and butterflies. A large huntsman spider named Horacio resides in her bathroom. She’s addicted to bananas, loves to cook fresh seafood with coconuts, is passionate about her tropical garden, and makes her own chocolate.

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Annus Horribilis

Diary of a Nobody

Roni Askey-Doran

Annus Horribilis: Diary of a Nobody

First published by Unicorn Press, October 2014

Copyright © Roni Askey-Doran 2014

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Smashwords Edition

ISBN: 978-0-9757600-7-9

Women’s literature – 20th century

Contemporary fiction, Women’s fiction,

Romance, Comedy, Adult themes

No trees were harmed during the production of this e-book

For Naomi and Ruth

January

My naked butt burns scarlet under the fierce Antipodean sun. I’m laying face-down, my head rests underneath a bush. Dirt, twigs and leaves press into my right cheek, glued into place by a trickle of sticky night drool. A sharp stick digs into my hip. The gutter is inches from my face. The stench of rubbish assaults my nostrils.

Gingerly, I shake myself fully awake. I don’t know where I am, or how I got here. As I lift my face out of the dirt, something deep inside my head pounds, like the drum section of a military marching band in full throttle. I rest my forehead on my arms and lie still a moment longer to lull the throbbing beat. As I lay groaning in the dirt, fingers of angry sunlight slap the backs of my thighs, stinging the tender flesh behind my knees.

‘Bloody typical.’ Drummers stomp through my head in steel-capped boots, announcing the imminent arrival of a catastrophic hangover. ‘I’m entering another New Year just like a new-born: bare-butt exposed to the whole frigging world.’

This is not even close to the auspicious beginning I’d planned for this New Year. Sadly, it’s almost an exact re-run of last year, except that last year I woke up totally naked beside a sexually omnivorous freelance fashion photographer, the appropriately named Willy Little, sprawled under a sun lounge beside the pool at whatzerface’s house.

This year, I’d had hopes for a more dignified kickoff to the year, with a touch of class and style, and a fresh, unsullied start. Apparently, my appetite for booze overrode my ambition and screwed it up.

Well, I try to console myself, accidentally sticking my fuzzy tongue out too far and grazing the dirt under my face, the upside of this latest debacle is that I can only ascend from here.

Squinting against the glare, my right eyeball feels like an olive on a toothpick. I open my other eye and look up, craning my neck until it cracks like a gunshot in my ear. For a split second, I wonder if I’ve broken it. If not, I should wring the darn thing myself.

Peering into the thicket above my head, I make out clusters of tiny red tubular flowers interspersed with fleshy purplish-black berries. The wrinkled furry leaves look exactly like my tongue feels. I’m under a lantana bush. This is not the kind of weed I need right now.

The marching band in my head bursts into a hearty rendition of Beethoven’s Fifth, firing the cannons for emphasis.

‘Grrrgn.’

I rest my hot face in the cool dirt for another moment and then roll onto my back. A stone digs into my butt. My designer pelt, carefully trimmed into a heart shape and dyed fluorescent pink especially for the party, is now sunny-side up. Knees bent, skirt wrapped around my ribs, I resemble a woman about to give birth. Attempting long-belated modesty, I drag the skirt across my legs to cover my rosy pubes.

I have a hangover the size of hell itself, and a thirst to match. Trust me to wear a white see-through cheesecloth skirt with beads and tinkling bells to a raucous New Year’s party in the furthermost outer suburbs. I should’ve known I’d wake up with it wrapped around my ears. My white halter-neck top is on back to front.

How in hell did that happen?! Although, now that I think about it, I think I really don’t want to think about it.

As the kaleidoscope of my vision gradually comes together, I spy my dangly gold earrings strewn in the grass like discarded Christmas decorations. I heave my body vertical, and fight the urge to heave anything else. My stomach rumbles ominously. I feel a kerbside pizza being baked to perfection.

My mouth feels like a cockatoo has defecated inside it. My tongue is swollen and tastes like a herd of wet mountain goats. My throat feels like I swallowed a sand goanna and my breath is so carbolic it could melt a city bus. I desperately need a glass of water. No chance. Grimy ginger corkscrews from my previously neat chignon hang limply in front of my eyes, peppered with tiny twigs and fallen lantana blooms.

Head pounding, I yank my skirt down to cover my ample behind. Wobbly and squeamish, I rake the shrubbery from my matted curls. I swipe the leaves and dirt off my face and look around blearily. My shoes do not appear to be in the immediate vicinity. Chances are, they’re probably lost forever.

‘Damn,’ I whimper, careful not to reverberate noise in the echo-canyon inside my head. ‘That’s the fourth pair in five months.’

‘Oh, no! Bluuurrrgh!’ It’s that nasty scene from The Exorcist. ‘Aaah. That feels better.’ I hang my pounding head between my knees.

The last thing I remember is standing near the punch bowl, smiling and chatting with everyone who came by. I guess I imagined it was the perfect spot to meet eligible blokes. Turns out it was the perfect spot to get totally rat-faced.

Sitting here, in the gutter, I have a hazy recollection of taking my halter top off and lap-dancing on George Durran. Oops!

I think his wife might have seen that. I vaguely remember her screaming, cursing like a fishwife, then throwing a glass of beer over his head and stalking out, lips pursed as if she’d just kissed her own butt. Poor old George!

Squinting through the glare of the simmering street, I locate the flimsy string bag I wore last night to complete my retro-hippie-look. House keys. Enough money for a taxi. Mobile phone.

Well, that’s a beginning. Things are looking up! Now, to get home.

Where the hell am I?

Squinting toward the intersection, I can just make out the name of the road on the sign. The street is deserted, except for a faded blue FB Holden parked near the corner. As I punch the numbers into my phone, a figure in the car moves. I turn away, hoping it’s not someone I know. Fortunately, New Year’s Day is the one day of the year when the entire planet sleeps in after partying all night. I’m relieved there are no witnesses to my humiliating breach birth into the new year.

Just as the taxi pulls up, a snooty woman prances past with a jittery French poodle, both their noses pointed skywards, as if sniffing the air for immoral activities.

Too bad, they just missed an entire open-air display.

I hear alarm bells.

I wonder if I’m on fire.

It’s hot. My head feels as if it’s burning.

Maybe it’s spontaneous combustion of the desperately hungover.

Wait a minute, I’m in my own bed and the phone is ringing.

It’s about mid-afternoon. The incessant chirruping wakes me from hangover-healing slumber.

‘What!?’ I growl into the receiver.

‘Happy New Year, girlfriend!’

‘Grrrgn. Nate—’

‘Hungover?’

‘Uhumm ....’

‘Right, I’ll call you back in a couple of hours.’

‘Uhumm ....’

‘You alright?’ He asks with a worried tone.

Then, I remember. ‘Happy Birthday, Nate,’ I mumble.

Last time we spoke he was in Bahrain, working on an oil rig. Since he went away to work two years ago, we’ve talked over the phone every three or four months, and he’s answered the odd email. I miss him, but he won’t be home for ages.

‘Thanks. I’ll call you later tonight,’ he whispers, understanding.

I push the button to hang up and immediately the loathsome device explodes into my brain once again.

Brrrp. Brrrp.

‘What!? I’m sleeping dammit!’

‘Happy New Year, Kirsten, you sexy stud-muffin!’ hoots Laura.

‘Stud-muffin?’ I venture, instinctively on high alert.

‘You don’t remember?’

‘Not a thing. Except for lap-dancing on George ....’

‘Ha! That was a fabulous display of semi-auto-erotica! Dahr-ling, Missus Durran will probably forgive you. In the year 2099. It’s quite possible everyone else will have forgotten by then, too.’

‘Was it bad?’

‘Very. In an amusing way.’

‘Grrrgn.’ How humiliation.

‘Listen, don’t worry, Kirsten, we all let our hair down sometimes. You just ... um ... do it more ... err ... exuberantly than the rest of us.’

‘Let my hair down? If only I could just let it down. I think I let it out. It ran away, and it went rampant like a roomful of toddlers drinking red cordial. Again.’

‘Yes, well all those years of repressed extrovert-ism had to have an effect some time. Don’t say I didn’t tell you so.’

‘Why didn’t you drag me out? What kind of friend are you, anyway?’

‘Anyway, it’s done now,’ Laura deftly dodges the accusation.

Hmmm, I wonder. Why didn’t she stop me?

‘There is no point beating yourself up about it, particularly when there’s a mile-long queue of irate wives and girlfriends itching to do it for you,’ she titters. ‘You know Kirs, I had no idea you could lap dance to Englebert Humperdinck. Hell, I didn’t even know you could lap dance. Where did you learn to do that, you mysterious dark horse? Seriously, when I wasn’t doubled over with giggles, I was actually quite impressed.’

‘Humph!’ I groan, struggling to remember the black hole that was last night. I rally against her verbal smirk and retort, ‘I was getting in touch with my inner-stripper.’

Perhaps I should have tried to get in touch with my inner-adult, which has been missing in action for over a year.

Jeez! I’m getting as bad as my sister.

Correction: half-sister.

Come to think of it, did I see ...?

Did she ...?

Nah, it couldn’t have been. I push the thought aside and turn my attention back to Laura who is still prattling.

‘... I hope she comes to me for her divorce,’ ponders Laura. The deadly black tip of her dorsal fin, common to those in her sharkish profession, rises to the surface for a microsecond, barely breaking the surface, and then is gone as if it were never there.

Da dum. Da dum. Da dum.

‘At first,’ she continues, quickly slipping back into her best-friend-persona, ‘I wondered why you chose George but, when I looked around the room, it was obvious. He was sitting in the only chair conducive to a full-face-breast-wrap. I bet his cheeks will be afire for weeks. I think, dahr-ling, that you are just a bit more woman than he can handle,’ she laughs.

‘Aargh! I need to go back to bed and die. Wake me up in 2099.’

‘Don’t be silly, Sleeping Beauty. You’re coming here for dinner. Don’t forget to select one of your excellent Merlots. I promise I won’t play Engelbert Humperdinck,’ she titters snidely.

‘Who will be there?’

‘The usual crowd.’

‘Grrrgn! I’m not coming. I have good reason to fear it could cause a permanent disruption to my vital signs.’

‘Yes, you are. I’ll be there at seven-thirty to pick you up. In your car.’

‘My car? How did you get ...?’ I sit up suddenly and my head erupts, bursting into a million shards.

Aargh! Nausea hits like a tsunami. I swallow hard and lie back down.

‘You really don’t remember anything?’

‘Only waking up under a bush ... and standing by the punchbowl.’

The pillow is by far the safest place for my raging head. Fighting the urge to vomit, I lie perfectly still and pray that the room will stop spinning. My bed is a roulette wheel. Place your bets! Place your bets!

‘A bush? What bush? You went home with that dish who owns the Moonlight Theatre! Whatsisname. You gave me the keys to your car and took off with the Stud-o-rama of the Century after you rammed your tongue down his neck. I swear,’ she digresses, ‘it’s the only game of tonsil-hockey I’ve ever seen that needed an umpire.’

‘Bryan Cooper? Isn’t he gay? It was a lantana bush near the park.’

The bed makes slower circles. It’s coming in for landing on black thirteen. I’m so relieved I could kiss it, but daren’t move a muscle.

‘Bryan, yes, that’s him. Jayzus! Is he gay? Why is it that all the best looking ones are gay? Are you sure? You left the party with him draped over your arm like a faux fur stole.’

‘I did? Then how ...?’ My stomach finally stops galumphing around inside my ribcage and settles in a cloudy puddle of unregurgitated rum punch.

‘Don’t tell me he ravaged you and left you under a frikking bush! But he seemed like such a gentleman!’

‘If that dipstick left me under a bush in the middle of nowhere, he’s no bloody gentleman! I’ll have to give him a piece of my mind.’

Though I may have to wait a few days until I have a decent sized piece to spare. The piece of mind I’m thinking of giving him throbs mightily in protest.

‘He’ll be here tonight. You can give it to him then. Toodeloo! See you at seven-thirty!’

Resigned to spend the evening enduring public humiliation of the type usually only afforded politicians who are caught with their pants down, I frog-march my undulating mountain range of lard into the bathroom. I undress, and venture to step onto the bathroom scales.

‘Omifrekkinggawd!’ I shriek, leaping off the perfidious machine as if I’ve just woken up and realised I’m fire-walking barefoot.

How can this be?

Overnight, I have become a hip-n-bottom-us.

‘Was I the size of a small island last night?’ I ask the mirror. ‘Someone’s fiddled with the dial.’

I reach down and adjust the zero knob, then step back on.

Nope.

Once again, it screams: ninety-four-point-five kilos.

Aargh!

Last time I did this, it said eighty-two kilos. Although, that was six months and four thousand chocolate-coated caramel donuts ago. As my weight skyrockets out of control, my self-esteem plummets, and my health suffers unnecessarily. This has got to stop.

‘If you get any bigger you’ll be sold off as residentially zoned acreage,’ I tell my reflection.

At this weight, I could have a heart attack, and Bridget Jones thinks she’s fat! Most women would sacrifice their left breast to hover tenaciously between the fifty-five and sixty kilo mark.

‘That ditzy klutz wouldn’t recognise stomach flab if she had to hike ten miles over it to reach her pubes,’ I sneer at my barely visible toes.

Was it really only two-and-a-half decades ago that my stomach was flat, my hips didn’t exist, and boobs were some mysterious enigma only other girls had? I remember parading on the beach in a tiny yellow bikini, all skin and bone, no curves. It seems like yesterday.

‘What happened?’ I ask my sagging body.

After an icy-cold shower, I make my list of New Year’s Delusions. Last year, I made the mistake of presuming I could aspire to a zillion lofty goals. Chastened by my dismal effort, I jot a few remotely hittable targets on my notepad:

1. Lose 25kg for your heart health (just over two per month – easy!)

2. Join a gym (not Laura’s—anywhere but Laura’s!)

3. Get a boyfriend (someone who knows the difference between therapeutic massage and Chinese torture, and can utter at least one intelligent sentence per day without suffering a severe brain haemorrhage. Also: make clear decisions about what kind of relationship. Casual ... Raunchy romps in sleazy hotels maybe?? Or something more serious? Not sure yet ....)

4. Buy a new car (admit it Kirs, Indie is past his use-by date)

5. Get your act together—the time has come, my feral friend

‘Jayzus, Kirs, you look like a crap sandwich!’

‘You should see me from this side!’

‘Come on, Poppet, let’s go,’ Laura sighs, kissing my flushed cheeks.

The drive across the bay is silent, loudly scented with shame. When we arrive at her house, Laura immediately hands me a salt shaker, a shot of golden tequila and a slice of lime then disappears into the kitchen. The Mexican rotgut is the meanest hair of the dog I’ve ever swallowed. Then, I see Bryan in the living room hovering over the hors d’oeuvres. Everyone ignores me. I am a social leper; both feet festering in my big mouth.

Well, screw you all too, I silently challenge their glaring judgmental eyes. Although, it’s probably wise to keep my boobs to myself tonight.

Is it my fault that I have the characteristics of fine wine; taking ages to mature? From the stiff expressions on their faces, you’d think I’d just infected them all with the Ebola virus.

Undaunted, I approach Bryan.

‘Daarling, the last girl I kissed with any feeling was my sister,’ Bryan scoffs, answering my blunt question.

‘You kissed me last night.’

‘I most certainly did not.’ He is indignant. His cheeks are ablaze. ‘You pounced and performed a tonsillectomy with your tongue before I realised I was being attacked by an Amazonian floozy!’

‘So you abandoned me under a bush?’ I retort, stung by his barb.

‘A bush?’ He honks, one eyebrow arched high. ‘What bush?’

‘A lantana. I half expected to wake up dead.’

‘I did not abandon you under a bush.’ Bryan plants his hands on his hips and glares, lips sternly pursed. ‘I left you sitting on a fence and went to find a taxi. When I came back to get you, you had gone.’

Although I can see the top of his head, the cute theatre owner is sneering down at me from such towering heights that I feel giddy.

‘I don’t remember anything after the punchbowl,’ I admit, trying to look ashamed. ‘I was surprised when Laura told me I left with you.’

‘After witnessing your ... ahem ... performance, I wanted to go home. I figured if I found a taxi and dropped you on the way, I could kill two birds with one stone and rescue everyone from your pranks.’

‘Pranks?’ My eyebrows start doing push-ups. I can feel my forehead getting thinner. At this rate, I’ll lose two kilos by the end of the night.

‘Kirsten, you must learn to control yourself. And for Pete’s sake keep your bloody clothes on,’ he spouts condescendingly. ‘No one wants to see you naked!’ Bryan’s eyes bulge in disgust, his face electric with revulsion.

I blanch. An almond has nothing on me. While the colour drains from my face, my self-esteem plummets to earth, and the parachute doesn’t open. Instinctively seeking comfort, I glance at the table and locate a bowl of chocolate.

‘You must have wandered off, crawled under a bush and crashed ...,’ Bryan shrugs, his raspy cheese-grater voice now a faint hum amidst my own thunderous thoughts.

He is repelled by the sight of me.

Do I look that bad? Am I really fat and stupid?

I am, aren’t I? Oh no. I’m fat and stupid.

Herding the shrapnel of my ego together, I make an effort to rally.

Bryan is still talking. ‘... after single-handedly draining the punchbowl, you behaved atrociously. Kirsten, you’ve been on this wild hair for over a year. Tales of your drunken antics are rife in every art gallery, cinema and bar from here to Timbuktu. Every time you attend a cocktail party, I cringe in fear of you embarrassing everyone. It’s high time you got yourself sorted out.’

Silently, I watch as Bryan marches across the room and begins chatting with the owners of the Bluebird Art Gallery, his back to me.

Right. It’s high time.

He’s right.

I have illegally crossed a social border and forgotten to bring my passport. Now, I’m standing naked in the foyer of the Arsehole Embassy without a valid visa. I’m so unpopular, even my self-esteem has abandoned ship.

It’s High Time.

I need a joint. Dammit! Can we make marijuana legal already?

Humiliated, I skulk out without dignity or dinner. As I merge with the night, even the heat slaps my face in disgust. Finding a taxi is like finding a zit on a Playboy centrefold’s backside. When arrive at home, I remember my car is back at Laura’s house.

Bugger.

The sting of rejection zings through me as I mix finely chopped mull with a pinch of dried mogwort. After I’ve rolled a neat spliff, I fire it up and move out to the balcony before I settle into a reclining deckchair. Gazing across the deserted beach, I drag deeply to clear the cloud of confusion fogging my mind. Now, this is mind therapy.

You know you’re stoned when the coach bolts holding up the stair banister look absolutely fascinating.

At thirty-seven years old, after endless months of inward trekking around my innermost catacombs—a task equivalent to fossicking for gold in a tin mine—I still haven’t figured out who I am. It’s like Fear and Self-Loathing in Les Visage.

Aren’t I supposed to be me?

If not, who am I supposed to be?

Madonna? Queen Beatrice? Cleo-bloody-patra?

Jeez! It isn’t a game of Mister Potato Head. The pieces are already together. Or are they? I’m not sure.

The façade of my carefully constructed Franken-life is falling apart. The vicarious limbs of other people’s lives are no longer wired together with mine, the extremities no longer stitched, the brain no longer hinged. The bolt at the neck of my existence has come undone.

As I squeeze the last drop from another bottle of the scotch I’ve been drinking like water all week, I don’t feel together at all.

So, who am I?

I’m Kirsten Idelia Smith:

Independent career woman

Recovering divorcee

Recalcitrant employee

Notorious ratbag

Drunken dimwit

Sarcastic smart-alec

Wait a damn minute! I’m the Cultural Editor at the Daily Tribune. I interview legends for a living. I go to the theatre, the cinema and the opera. I lunch with film stars, dine with rock stars, and dance with kings and queens. This has been my life for the last seventeen years.

When I first landed this job, it was exhilarating. I leapt out of bed every morning and couldn’t wait to get to work. Every day was new and exciting. The people I met were inspiring, awesome individuals, most of whom rubbed some of their magic onto me. Just the other day, I talked to Ben Harper. Last week I had lunch with Nicole Kidman. An interview with Mick Jagger is scheduled next week. I have an exciting, glamorous career you only read about in magazines.

Glamorous jobs aren’t what they’re cracked up to be. Several weeks of back-breaking toil go into a femtosecond of glamour. Oh, the frantic scrabbling and screaming to ensure every minute detail sits this way and gleams just so! Some of the people I work with have less brain cells than a sea sponge and not enough nous to tie their own shoelaces. Honestly, it’s like herding feral cats.

Despite the bad-hair days and screaming tantrums, I do like my job. Mostly .... Well, sometimes .... Just a tick, I may need a moment or two to think about this. (I’ll get back to you on that.)

I don’t have any family—nobody I want to talk about, anyway—and my friends say I’m funny. Right now I feel as funny as a herpes blister. If I’m so damned funny, then why has my popularity rating plunged to a record low, and descending faster than the Titanic? Ever since the New Year’s party, Jack the Ripper has more friends than me.

I’m tall and voluptuous. Though recently, a nasty weasel at the office said I was fat. Tall, as in over six feet; one hundred and eighty-seven centimetres, to be precise. Twelve months ago, I was pleasantly plump and cuddly, but now construction companies are considering using my backside as a redevelopment site.

Atop the protective helmet covering my grey matter is an uncontrollable mop of corkscrew red hair. Medusa’s locks were tame compared to the wild serpents dancing on my head. Whenever I try to tame the feral beast, the red-tailed monster rebels with a vengeance. For the most part, I leave it alone and it leaves me alone.

My breasts are also an entity. They nearly qualify for separate postcodes. I call them Les Goils; Martha and Mabel Smith.

Countless men have had intimate conversations with my garrulous gazongas. They make me feel as if I’m hosting a threesome to which I haven’t been invited. Martha and Mabel are in good company since men make total boobs of themselves the second they meet my goils. Most blokes don’t even notice my shock of bright red hair, cobalt bedroom eyes and apricots-and-cream complexion.

I wonder if my breasts are secretly chatting with men’s penises.

Factoid #1: Far too many men think with their penises.

Factoid #2: The reason a penis has a hole in the end is so that those particular men can think with open minds.

Trouble is, when a penis like that is in the proximity of nipples, the hole shuts down. I’m considering a breast reduction and liposuction.

Although, at this point, I’m not sure if I want a man in my life. The game of lust has drastically changed in the last two decades. Now it’s predatory and war-like, with subtle hints of circus flavour. Since being unexpectedly flung from the Ferris wheel of marital bliss into the dodgem-car circuit of singledom, I haven’t yet made all the adjustments necessary to facilitate a smooth ride.

Jeez, I’ve invented my own ride: One Way Rollercoaster to Hell

And the guy with his hand on the joystick is speeding out of control.

Eleven days into the New Year, I am finally sober, if not straight. Over the past week and a half, I’ve consumed so many hairs-of-the-dog that my liver is still being savaged by a snarling pack of mongrels. Today is Thursday and, with the help of a little joint, I’m finally upright and coherent. Back to work on Monday.

Errgh! I don’t want to talk about it.

Returning to my real life is as inevitable as dropped toast landing Vegemite-side-down on the carpet. As my body slowly recovers from excess Christmas spirits, I need to make some plans.

Get organised.

Sort out my life.

Clean this pigsty of a house.

I inhale the last of my roach and look around the floor.

Since becoming unexpectedly single about fourteen months ago, I’ve unearthed a closet-grot. For umpteen years, I never questioned my husband’s decision to employ a housekeeper. I accepted it, and was extremely grateful. If cleaning-genes were books, my library would be a darkened room filled with thick cobwebs and dusty corners.

‘Okay,’ I grimace, hauling the ancient pig-faced vacuum cleaner out of the cupboard. I rip the cord out of its nest and plug it in, doggedly determined to get my life back together. ‘Let’s do this.’

I flick the switch.

Boom!

Bugger.

Jeez, what a mess.

Ugh! What a stink!

Aachooo. Holy exploding dust balls!

I stare dumbly, gaping at the aftermath, shocked at the violence of the explosion. The sharp aroma of burning hair and rubber fills the room. Black smoke hangs in the air like the remnants of a baked-bean fart, so thick you can bite into it.

Hanging my head in shame, my incompetence leaves me gobsmacked. Am I the only idiot on the planet who can blow up a vacuum cleaner just by turning it on?

‘Well,’ I say, squaring my shoulders, determined not to be defeated by this unexpected development. ‘We’ll just ... um ... go and ... err ... get a new one.’

Aachooo!

My beloved car shivers and shudders, bumpers and panels rattling loudly, as we pull up at Llewellyn’s Cut Price Electrical. I’m afraid to sneeze while driving in case Indie falls apart. I’m loathe to get rid of the ancient navy Morris I christened Indiana Jones for its intrepid appearance almost two decades ago, but it’s painfully clear I need a new car. I close the door gently, careful not to bump the fender. Despite his numerous faults, Indie has been a faithful companion.

Unlike some ....

Grateful for the air-conditioning, I step into the cavernous appliance store. A young man named Mike (according to his name tag) bounds over like a puppy keen to please its owner, grinning like a circus clown on ecstasy.

‘Welcome to Llewellyn’s Cut Price Electrical. How can I help you?’

He eagerly reels off the mechanical greeting tattooed onto his brain, and I almost expect to see a tail wagging enthusiastically behind him.

‘I need a new vacuum cleaner,’ I tell the pimple-faced teenager. ‘The last one just blew up.’

‘Yes. I can um ... see that. Errm. You have some errr ... dust on your neck, ma’am, if you don’t mind me ah ... pointing it out,’ he mumbles, blushing.

‘Thanks. No, I don’t