Bunty popped round last night for a chat, for some inexplicable reason The Husband sat at the table with them (and by inexplicable reason Gail means the bottle of Pinot and their natural hilarity obviously).
Since Bunty’s divorce she’s had a fair bit to deal with and last night she was explaining that she’d be better off being a widow, not just financially but because if Arse was dead she’d not look at all the old holiday photos and feel anger, that all her memories that had been nice are now tarnished. That buying Father’s Day cards for the kids because it’s the right thing to do nearly kills her.
As they drank more wine they devised ways in which Bunty should have killed Arse, the best being the old sword made of ice then made into a cup of tea (there are obvious holes in this cunning plan when examined in the cold light of day). ...This morning Gail woke up to the sound of The Husband putting the bins out without being prompted and she thought she might just make enquires into staying at the Ice Hotel just to keep him on his toes for a bit longer.