Meade's Ball
Well-known member
I am a little tense, yes. Saturday is the anniversary of my divorce from Macauley Culkin. The acrimony has lessened, his little musical hands no longer reaching fiercely for my imagined larynx when he thinks of me, he swears, and we're able to jest about the time we first met in the emergency room - him high on the medication an unlicensed quack had given him for his fear of binoculars and me with horrendous burn marks through the roof of my balaclava and piercing goose plumage scattered all over the thick grey coat I'd inherited from my uncle Dick. He's a little uptight, Macauley, whilst I'm the more carefree type going where I like and taking what I fancy after perhaps a week's scheming. It was never going to last I suppose, that wee whippersnapper some 45 years my junior, but maybe nowadays we don't fully wed with expectation of eternality of our love or togetherness. Alright, I am now married to a 22 year old chap called Kieran, and I feel when asked that our love can last as long as my heart will beat - a proposed further 9 months, the doctors say - but deep down I know he'll clean me out and probably look to send me on one last caper climbing up a greased ladder or being clobbered to near death by a huge hot iron. Macauley and I will meet, and reminisce, and call each other the names we used to have for each other. He called me The Tadger Badger, which I never understood but chuckled endearingly along with, whilst I knew him privately as Graysculkin, in reference to our shared appreciation of He-Man and American misspellings. We'll share a Bovril and back i'll go to Kieran, to likely meet my well-planned and gruesome death.
