From Fancy Pants to Getting There

Wright Elizabeth

Description

Elizabeth Wright had it all. A comfortable life, successful business, house, handsome partner and beautiful baby. Then things screwed up. She discovered that the man in her life was being unfaithful, and her prosperous pet centre crashed into a financial black hole. At fifty-two, and menopausal, she was reduced to being a single mum on benefits with the stigma of bankruptcy. Left with just a negative equity house harnessed to a hefty mortgage, she had to face an impoverished lifestyle along with a succession of jobs which either folded or relocated. In this hilarious book she recounts how she quickly learnt to juggle work and child care, keep an ancient car on the road that already had one wheel in the Great Breaker's Yard in the Sky, whilst her money-saving efforts to grow her own food, were defeated by thieving blackbirds, munching molluscs and exploding bags of donkey manure. Dog sitting was a disaster, with fleas, mangy animals and an amorous owner with a dodgy trouser zip. There were cockroaches in the takeaway, drunks in the bakery, and a parcel sealing machine with pit bull attitude in the factory. Then, after all her efforts, the Trustees of the Bankruptcy stated that her only asset, the house, was back into equity and would have to be sold to pay the debtors. Fighting this, she worked fourteen hours a day, raised the required AGBP30,000, kept the house, had the bankruptcy annulled and, with a great sense of humour, wrote this book.

Sujets

• Humour

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 11 juin 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781849898058
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page

FROM FANCY PANTS TO GETTING THERE!







By
Elizabeth Wright




Publisher Information

From Fancy Pants To Getting There! published in 2011 by
Andrews UK Limited

www.andrewsuk.com

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

Copyright © Elizabeth Wright

The right of Elizabeth Wright to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.



Chapter One

Nearly knickers I would have called them; the open crotch winked brazenly at me from between his unwashed socks and empty fag packets stuffed into his overnight bag. With shaking hands I picked up this scrap of scarlet gossamer and gave it a closer look. Definitely not designed for comfort and, definitely not one of mine. I’d have been hard pressed to have got it halfway up my left leg. I felt sick as I visualised a pert, cellulite-free rear tucked inside the material. The words, “Till death us do part” were shortly going to have a new meaning when I caught up with him. His death-my part in it.
As usual, after long hours driving his lorry, he was enjoying his regular evening visit to the Pig and Whistle down the road, knocking back multiple pints of their strong local brew, having a few games of darts with his mates, and probably indulging in lecherous leers down the flirty landlady’s walnut cracking cleavage.
Now that my suspicions had been confirmed and I had finally caught him out, I couldn’t stop the tears of rage streaming down my face as I sobbed, “I’ll kill him, I will, I’ll bloody kill him.” For a long time I had known that Tony, with his handsome, rugged looks, twinkly green eyes and quick wit, had been getting some extra oats elsewhere, but up to now he’d always managed to cover his tracks and sweet talk his way out of trouble. Stupidly, I’d always wanted so much to believe him, hoping he’d change. There was now Jackie, our beautiful baby girl in our lives, so I’d had a strong maternal urge to keep the family unit together. But, having turned a blind eye to his feckless womanising for twelve years, he was going to find out that thirteen would be his unlucky number. Angrily rubbing the tears from my face, I finally came to my senses and realised that I was just a willing female who had given him a secure roof over his head and been an active partner in pulverising the bedsprings.



Chapter Two

It had all started out so well. He began working in a DIY shop two doors down from my pet shop. The attraction was instantaneous. I broke out in a hot flush from the moment he took off his shirt on a hot summer’s day, to reveal a bronzed, muscular body that I wanted to run my hands all over. Totally smitten, I pursued him unashamedly, turning a deaf ear to rumours of his serial philandering. My father, an ex-Metropolitan police officer, was far from happy. Using his detective skills, he turned up a lot of Tony’s past love lives, where it appeared anything in a skirt was fair game. He tried to warn me off, but at the age of twenty-eight, with my hormones exploding in all directions, I had fallen hopelessly in love for the first time. A love so overwhelming, nothing else mattered. “Dad,” I said, “This is the man I want to set up home with, bear his children and grow old together in a loving relationship.” Dad looked pityingly at me and muttered something about me finding out in time.
All of this went over the top of my head as I ditched my dull wardrobe of ankle length dresses and boring cardigans in favour of short skirts, push up bras and high heeled fashion shoes that started to play havoc with my bunions. It didn’t take him long to notice what was so obviously on offer and, and to my delight, he came into the shop shortly afterwards and, true to character, asked, “Would you like to come out for a drink?”
He turned up that evening in an immaculately polished, shiny red mini that sported a small brass aeroplane etched into the top of the gear stick. An acknowledgement to his RAF days. The vehicle’s pristine perfection should have warned me that this man would always value his precious car above any relationship, however special. But, his appreciative glances made the three hours and fifteen changes of clothes well worth the effort. I glowed when he whispered in my ear, “You look lovely.”

Excitedly, I got in and slammed the door. To my horror, the flimsy handle fell off.
“Sorry about that,” I said, laughing nervously, as I handed him the strip of metal. Not a word was uttered as he used a piece of string to tie the door shut. His face had suddenly gone from happy-smiley to bad-tempered bullfrog that’s found something nasty at the bottom of the lily pond. I was at that point, tempted to bail out, but the possibilities of sex being on the menu added an emotional thrill to the situation.
Tony eventually thawed out when we found a traditional country pub and sat by a roaring fire gazing into each other’s eyes, mentally savouring what was probably going to follow later. The back seat of that mini was going to take a pounding and he’d probably be seeing the soles of my feet in his wing mirror.
It was past midnight when we headed home, but, down a dark deserted country lane, the car engine started making peculiar noises and a cloud of steam gushed out from under the bonnet. Tony’s bullfrog face re-appeared. Then, with a cough and hiccup, the car died. We coasted into a handy lay-by, nudging alongside a dingy, brick building whose single, grubby 5 watt bulb barely illuminated a ‘Public Conveniences’ sign.
With the aid of a flickering torch, Tony did some running repairs, but the water in the radiator now needed topping up. In the ‘Ladies’ I found the requisite cold water tap, but we needed a suitable container to get the water from the building to the car. A dustbin stood invitingly nearby with a very usable cover. By juggling the lid between the basin and the tap, I managed to get a small amount of water in it and tottered on my four inch heels back to the car. Then the torch expired and in the darkness, I couldn’t see where I was going. Just as Tony was saying, “Be careful now,” I slipped off the edge of the pavement, lost my balance and as I fell forward, the watery contents of the lid splattered over the exposed car engine. Its owner sunk even further into a black mood as he angrily grabbed a kitchen roll from the glove compartment and, ripping off yards of absorbent paper, tried to mop up the mess. He then vented his anger on the lid by snatching it out of my hands and hurling it away. It disappeared into the blackness, doing noisy cartwheels along the tarmac.
“That was a stupid thing to do,” I said, “Now how are we going to fill up the radiator?” No answer. However, by the lights of a passing car, I saw the lid had come to rest alongside the opposite pavement. So I retrieved it, kept my mouth shut and continued carrying water with greater care.
He eventually got the car going, but we had lost the little piece of string holding my door shut.
“Open your bloody window, stick your bloody arm out and hold that bloody door shut,” he snarled at me. The frosty temperature inside was lower than the autumnal night outside. And the back seat wasn’t even sat upon that night.

***

But, in spite of this hiccup, we continued to see one another and over a period of a year, the relationship blossomed, and I decided to buy an old fashioned, roses-round -the -door cottage in the country. The roof had a couple of tiles missing, so when it rained water trickled down the bedroom wall and local field mice nipped in through a hole by the water pipe and scuttled noisily around the kitchen at night. We had to cope with a troublesome cesspit and all the cooking was done with bottled gas.
Tony said, “I’ll do it all up and make it look nice,” then hauled home great lengths of timber on his lorry and went ahead and built himself a gargantuan garden shed, complete with an old portable TV fixed up high in one corner. He spent hours out there potting up tomato plants, building fences for the garden and trellis for all the climbing roses.
But, I soon discovered that rural life was nowhere as idyllic as it was cracked up to be. I could have happily lived without the countryside pong of newly spread cattle slurry, considered by the locals as being ‘a healthy smell’. And, being a night person, I was not given to leaping out of bed when the local rooster started his pre-dawn yodelling from the top of the hen house. After umpteen cock-a-doodles, I felt like wringing his scrawny, iridescent green neck.
As an unsuspecting townie, recently moved in, I had been embarrassingly initiated into the peculiar ways of rustic life, when I mistook the strangled screams from the adjacent woods as desperate cries from victims of mass murder. With Tony away on a lengthy delivery for his company, I panicked and dialled 999. The local Bobbies, clearly longing for a bit of excitement on their quiet patch, arrived within minutes, blue lights flashing, notebooks at the ready.
As they both strode up the garden path, I rushed out to meet them, hysterical at this apparently terrible situation.
“There’s something dreadful going on up in those woods. I think someone is being killed.