Forget the real housewives of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills; Giggy was always the star.
Author: Jaci Stephen
You cannot imagine my delight when, out of nowhere, a flashing box popped up on my computer screen telling me that I had missed a message from the guardian angel you promised me.
What if my guardian angel was called Bob? I don’t know why: I just didn’t want a Bob. That was the name of someone you go to the pub with, not someone you want flapping their wings around you of an evening when you’re trying to eat your curry and watch Law and Order: SVU.
When you can’t even acquire tea-bag number two and are told that the tea will be strong enough with one, Oliver Twist’s “Please, sir, can I have some more?” starts to look like a gastronomic walk in the park. By that point, my bowels were really irritable, along with the rest of me.
The States is far more graphic than the UK on BTW (Below The Waist) problems both for men and women. In the UK, women’s monthly cycles on TV are still represented by somebody pouring colored ink on an all too absorbable material, as opposed to showing the reality, which is an orifice capable of hosting a veritable Epson ocean of ink.
On Christmas morning, we all used to go to the neighbours for pre-dinner drinks. The turkey would have been prepared and stuffed early in the morning – the giblets pulled out for stock, the inside of “the bird” dried out with a tea-towel, accompanied by Mum shouting at Dad “You know I hate it being called the bird!” What was it with her and birds, I wonder?
Bravo held out for Jax as long as it could; but in our current times, a verbally abusive, promiscuous man with an uncontrolled temper – and a thief, to boot – is not good news for any broadcaster whose priority is protecting its brand.
The smallness of the list was heartbreaking. Already, the record of my father’s last weeks had filled several small, black notebooks: his last Christmas, his final trip into ward 18 at Frenchay Hospital, the last time I saw him when, with an attempt at a normal smile, he told me that he loved me.
What does a spouse do? Put the trash out? Phone the insurance company when they refuse to pay out? Phone the police when your iPad’s been stolen (again)? Put an arm around you when you cry?
If you read nothing else, ever, read this.