Dear Aunty Jean,
I am a divorcee of 48. My husband left me for my mother a year ago.
Yes, it’s the ultimate betrayal. Mother was the epitome of maternal doting until she started taking some ‘vitamins’ which she purchased off the internet.
Oh, how I wish that I’d never bought her that re-conditioned laptop!
Anyway, overnight, she turned from a matronly lady whose hobbies were knitting and baking into a raging femme fatale. She left our house one Friday afternoon in polyester trousers and a jumper with cats on it and came back the following day in a skirt slashed to the thigh and no bra.
My husband didn’t stand a chance.
I would add that he’s the type who gets signed up to strange churches on the doorstep as he has a problem with saying no. I had to rescue him from a cult about 15 years back after he agreed with a woman he met at the bus stop that he did indeed think that ‘Brain re-organising’ sounded like a a good thing. I’d also add that this mad cult worshipped quadrupeds. I had to rescue him with my friend ‘Marcia’, while dressed as a pantomime horse.
So that’s the background!
I am actually writing in the hope that you would publish a couple of pieces of my poetry in your column? I started writing poetry during the breakdown I had after my husband left me. It became a real outlet for my negative feelings during those dark times.
So, may I please present to you……………..Broken!
I trusted you, oh mother, mother, mother,
Like I trusted no other. Other.
But, now you’ve taken my man!
You, with your encouraging breasts, which bewitch a weak man.
Weak. Weak, weak.
I could hit you in the face with a flan. Flan. Flan, flan, flan.
I gag at the thought of you together. Gag, gaggagagagagagagag. Gag.
And now please enjoy my next poem ‘My soulmate betrays me’.
We both shared it all,
Life’s ups and downs and takeaway curry.
Now I am reduced and small,
To my mother’s gnarled thighs you did scurry.
My heart is splattered and broke,
You were too weak to resist,
I called you a pig when we last spoke,
When you said you weren’t one, I did insist.
I do hope, Aunty Jean, that my poetry may inspire others in my position to find a more rewarding outlet for their feelings of decimation, other than going down the more traditional route of smashing their husband’s car windscreens and spray painting ‘Slapper’ all over the fronts of their mother’s houses, etc, which courses of action usually end in a restraining order.
Mine will be over in 3 months btw.
Thank you very much for your time.
Yours, stalking them over the interent now physical contact has been banned,
Aunty Jean says:
Dear Internet stalker,
Quite honestly I’m surprised you speak to your mother at all after she called you Dixie.
But aside from that quibble, I do think that poetry is a very good conduit for one’s feelings. I, myself, have dabbled in verse for a good few years now.
And as a treat, here is some of my own!
Raine, you get on my wick,
Because you are so thick,
From your ‘council house blonde’ hair,
To your gormless blank stare,
You are a stain, Raine.
And a poem I have dug out from my days as headmistress at The Dame Imelda Blofeld (private) school.
How my girls love the glue,
They ask for a bucket of it,
They gain a lovely hue,
When around the glue they sit.
But, oh dear, how they do sniff!
While they muse on sticking things with glue!
Yes, I have such happy memories of my girls bent over the ‘old glue bucket’, lost in a world of their own. They were, no doubt, thinking of the wonderful collages they could create.
They were so enthusiastic about their glue related reverie that we had to introduce a ‘Glue sniffing’ period into the timetable.
The board of governors, as usual, put a damper on things and we had to let it go. I remember saying to them ‘What’s wrong with glue sniffing?’ Answer came there none, as they all just sat there in stunned silence with their mouths open.
Anyway, I hope, Dixie, (Get yourself off to the deed poll office), that you have enjoyed reading my poetry as much as I enjoyed reading yours!
I am hoping to publish a volume of my poetry in the near future. I have a working title of ‘Jean Price’s poems’, it’s the snappiest thing that I’ve come up with so far.
Hope that helps! Aunty Jean
Remember! The owl and the pussycat did NOT go to sea. This is pure fiction!