Orchestration Of Castration Without Hospitalization

Is there a prize for the most syllables in a post title? If there is I should definitely win for this one.

Sometimes my life stories have a moral to them. Other than the usual ‘Never trust a smiling Britchy’ or a quiet Britchy actually, or a chatty Britchy or a… yeah I think you get the idea. Luckily for this blog, most others Never Learn so that keeps me posting -There’s always a silver lining to (others) misfortune!

Way back when I was married to Farquhar Barstardcelot (see The Cast Of Characters) I had a little house in Kent, England. From the front it looked like a two up, two down but it had a lower level/basement and a small frontage so it was quite a lot bigger than you’d expect at first glance.

There was a tiny area of yard on the lower level at the front and an equally tiny area of grass at street level which I had paved. At the back of the house you could walk out into a long narrow garden. About sixteen feet wide by 60 feet long.

The house was on three levels so two sets of stairs with two bedrooms upstairs, the kitchen and dining room on the ground floor and the living room, bathroom and utility room on the bottom level.

There was a glass door between the kitchen and dining room so I could keep the dogs out. I had wanted safety glass put in that door but Farquhar was too cheap and bought very thin glass. I was always afraid the dogs would bash into it and break it so it was usually left open, flat against the wall and opposite to the staircase.

This is a lot of detail I know but bear with me, it’s relevant to the story! We had another couple living next door who had got married a couple of months before. I’d played a trick on them involving the use of a baby monitor and a squeaky dog toy. The listening bit was hidden in their bedroom before they came back from honeymoon and I had way too much fun winding them up with noises!

In a twist I shall never understand, they put the blame for this solely on FB’s shoulders.

‘er nextdoor and I were chatting one evening. Over the garden fence. Drinking wine. As you do.. when she asked for my help getting ‘revenge’ on him. Always delighted to be in on a prank, I naturally jumped at the chance to orchestrate a ‘justified’ comeuppance.

We decided to do the baby monitor trick again but the other way around and they would muffle their voices and make it sound like they were burgling us. They had the noise maker, we had the listener. We’d gone up to bed as usual. I was pretending to read and trying not to laugh. The book was a good cover in case I couldn’t help myself and accidentally snorted.

We heard a squeak like a door opening so I stage whispered “what was that?”

Have you ever noticed how if someone whispers at night, everything is instantly more ominous?

Obviously the neighbors could hear me so they “dropped” something. I squeaked “What was that?” I was rudely shushed whilst he sat up, quivering like a rat, listening intently. Then there was a gruff, muffled ‘Fuckin erfgh” and that was it.

‘I’m not letting some effin bastards steal my effin telly’ (priorities right?!) ‘I’ll break their effin necks’ He positively STORMED out of the bedroom righteously indignant in his Marvin the Martian boxer shorts. I don’t know what he thought he was going to intimidate burglars with. His death ray was more of a glow worm..

He stomped onto the tiny landing between the two bedroom doors and missed the first step. He slid down the stairs bonk! Bonk! BONK! whacking his tailbone on every step and smacked his foot straight through the glass door opposite the bottom of the stairs. He was promptly showered with shards of glass most of which landed in his lap and gave him a few nasty cuts on the unmentionables.

It didn’t make a vas deferens – I found out I was pregnant the following month.