Crappily Ever After Read Online Free Page B

home as it could be a two-man job. So, we had driven around for an extra twenty minutes to send them off to sleep. We each struggle up the garden path, which was littered with roller skates, bikes and a football, under the heavy weight of a soundly sleeping child. Bill watches us mutely from the door with a can of lager in one hand and a fag in the other, looking as unattractive as ever in greying socks and boxer shorts. A fetching curry stain on his once white T-shirt. Mary informs Bill that he can stop looking at her with that combination of shock and disgust. She couldn’t drink for the best part of two years while she carried Josh and Jess; one night of sobriety and being the responsible adult was not going to kill him. That said, we head down to Mum’s. On arrival, Mum gives me a big hug and tells me I’m getting far too skinny, as she does every time I see her, despite my almost eleven-stone bulk. She places a huge plateful of sausage, mash and gravy in front of me – heart disease is one of the main hazards of having a Scottish mother.
‘I know it’s a lot, but it’s the Taurean need-to-feed. It’s out of my control,’ she explains.
 
    We have a lovely evening of festive TV. Normally, we would never dream of watching a church service but, as ex-choir girls, Mum and I love it. Despite thinking she could give Celine Dion a run for her money, Mary’s singing – bless her – conjures up images involving a bag of cats, bricks and a river. There is something warm and comforting about a carol concert. We screech out hymns as if we still had fresh, non-nicotine addicted lungs.
           
     
    Within hours, the evening spirals downward into debauchery with a hilarious game of Cataroo . Think of the childhood game, Buckaroo , but on a live, sleeping cat. Mary goes first with a carefully placed gift tag. Poopsy, so named due to her aversion for the litter tray, snoozes on oblivious. I go next with a candy stick plucked off the tree. Mum tuts and fusses, declaring the game cruel and unnecessary, then wanders over with a bauble, also from the tree. By this stage we are all convulsed with silent laughter, apart from the odd snort or whimper. Two minutes later Poopsy has the addition of a Twiglet, a pickled onion, a mobile phone, one of my nephew’s Power Rangers and then, the piece de resistance from Mary, a remote control is heading Poopsy’s way.
With an expectant ‘Oooh’ from Mum and me, Mary gently places the remote on Poopsy’s rump. It’s too much. The cat stands, shakes and strops off, much to the amusement of Mum and I. Mary rants that our ‘Oooh’ disturbed the cat and therefore cost her the game. We end the evening with a ready-prepared buffet that, courtesy of Mum, appears from the never-ending fridge, and one more drink. The kind of house measure that’d see Geoff Capes off.               
     
    I come round briefly an hour later to the mutterings of my sister manoeuvring me into bed, sans boots, socks and anything I could inhale or choke on through the night in my inebriated state. My mother takes her role as a Health and Safety Officer very seriously.
 ‘If she pisses the bed, don’t expect me to sort it,’ declares Mary. ‘I do it at least twice a week as it is. And then there’s the kids too!’
    ‘Oh no, has Bill done it again?’ Mum wearily enquires.
    Just to add to his charms, Mary’s wayward husband suffers from alcohol-induced enuresis. Actually, to be honest, Bill has enuresis – it’s Mary who suffers from it. At least it’s generally reserved for the hall cupboard and, luckily, has only ever been ‘number ones’. Mary was on her third hoover purchase this year. Mum had informed her under no circumstances to plug it in. Mary did once and it stank of wee, but it didn’t blow up like Mum had said it would.   
     
    Unbeknown to Mary, she had a new hoover from Mum as a Christmas present – something I had tried to talk her out of in Curry’s when I