Thursday, January 14, 2010

Peggy Screams

It’s 9 pm. Peggy’s had her usual run of triple whiskies: I watch her as I type. It’s plainly not good for her; she sways as she crosses the apartment. I imagine her blackened liver and wince.

She goes and sips sips sips on the balcony watching the cranes (we -rather I, because it was my idea- bought this waterside place- and it's good to stand on the balcony and watch the cranes and the people milling about from the restaurants below) which is a dangerous place to be if you are solidly drunk: you could so easily just trip and crash over the balcony fencing, tumbling to a certain death, or at best ending up in a hospital forever, showing little more life than a crushed cabbage. But Peggy’s so obstinate that when I entreat, “Peggy darling, pleased please take care it’s a long way from the balcony to the ground!” she just shrugs it off with a bland mid-western “mmmmhmm”.

She’s listening to Simon and Garfunkel, and I watch her get up- she usually has a bath about this time…she’s got a clean towel, and I see she’s bought some new shampoo. I can’t see what this one is: it’s in a small golden box, which itself probably cost fifty quid to produce. The last shampoo was made of cucumbers and walnuts and ox musk (no kidding). The soap Peggy uses isn’t normal either. Instead, she buys this creamy/gritty stuff which is called cleanser. It’s made from moringa seed extract. It’s just for your nose, maybe your cheeks too, though it’s best not to use it at all: I used it to wash my hands once and Peggy didn’t speak to me for a week. If you want to wash the rest of your body Peggy style you have to use another product, which is called Body Cleanser and is made of seaweed and parts of an Amazonian cactus.

Anyway, she’s wandering into the bathroom and I hear this terrible piercing scream.

“Oh fuck! oh fuck!” she cries.

“What is it darling!” I respond immediately, leaping out of my computer chair.

“Look”, says Peggy, between gasps. She’s rigid with fear, melodramatically tensed up, like one of those petrified forms from Pompeii, and I have to stifle a giggle.

“What?” I say, lovingly.

“That”, yells Peggy in a cross between a moan and a yell, pointing.

I peer in the deep yellow light of the bathroom, scouring with my eyes round the bath, searching.

“No there!, THERE!" she shouts.

And yes, sure enough, there it sits, miniscule, helpess and meek: a teeny brown spider. I gently scoop it up with my fingertips and free it on the balcony.

This is a follow up to these posts: and

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