Parasites.

“I’m like Angelina Jolie”, I said to Hubby. His face looked pained in concentration as he desperately tried not to insult me, whilst at the same time you could see him try to figure out how his wife, who sat opposite him on the sofa in a pair of baggy, unmatching pyjamas and who sported a bright red, flaky nose, a chesty cough and lank hair scraped into a pony tail could possibly be compared to one of the most beautiful and not to point too fine a point on it, sexy women in the world.
“How come love?” he attempted bravely.
I stroked the cat that was contentedly purring in a perfect coil on my lap.
“Well, I suppose I am the Angelina Jolie of the feline world”. Hubby was still at a loss.
“For heaven’s sake”, I said, irritably, “I have an adopted rainbow family too, only they are cats and not kids”.
“Oh I see”, replied Hubby visibly relieved that I wasn’t delusional, “Yes, you are”, he added, reaching down the front of his trousers for a good scratch “and of course you’ve got Brad Pitt for a husband.” I choked on my Lemsip and splattered it everywhere.
“Cheers”, said Hubby, “I’ll take that snort of derision to mean that you don’t think I am then”.
Hubby’s cold was receding a little, as was his hair; he hadn’t shaved for two days because he’d been ‘coming down with something’ and he sprawled on the armchair in his slouchy, decorating clothes. We looked a fine pair, one of those that Trinny and Susannah would concur that had let themselves go in a, contented if unremarkably, lacklustre marriage.
“We don’t make much of an effort to attract each other these days do we?”, I said.
“Well, it’s been a long time since you got your webbing on”.
“Huh?”.
“Stockings and suspenders?”
“Oh for God’s sake”, I was cross, “Is that all you want is it? Are you that shallow that your idea of me being sexy is to dress up like some second rate porn star?”. He looked injured. It was one of those defining moments when men and women are most defiantly on Venus and Mars. He was totally out of his depth and knew that whatever direction this conversation went, he was snookered.
“Well Alice, you are lovely just the way you are. Well, ok maybe not exactly just the way you are, but when your hair is shiny, you’ve got your slap on and a sexy pair of shoes”.
“Nothing deeper then?” I probed. He looked blank. Nope he’d never thought of my attractiveness either on a deeper level or more than skin deep.
“So my wit and intelligence doesn’t turn you on then?” Hubby was now totally out of his comfort zone and would quite happily have gone into the kitchen to clear away the Sunday dinner dishes and even scrub the roasting pans. I however, was on a roll.
“I am never going to wear ‘webbing’ as you so romantically put it, ever again, for a number of reasons not least because the rolls of flesh that escape from under the straps and hooks are not perceived by most men to be much of a turn on and because I genuinely thought you made love to me with your mind”.
“I’m not with you”.
“Jeeze. Doesn’t just the smell of me, my closeness to you, the fact that you love me and my personality have anything to do with it, or fundamentally, is it all down to itchy lace and a pair of ten denier?”
“Don’t get a cob on now Alice. I think you’re gorgeous, hell, after last week’s little incident most of Plymouth would agree you have a fantastic pair of kn..”
“Nits. Bloody, bloody hell I’ve got nits”. It was the five year old, barging in having just been bathed by her big sister, who followed her, nit comb in hand.
“Sweetheart, don’t swear please. Come here, let Mummy look”. She bent over my lap and sure enough, there the buggers were.
“Me too mummy”, added the Red-Head, wandering naked into the sitting room looking very dejected, trailing a soaking wet towel behind her. “No mummy comb my hair”. I heaved myself off the sofa, “Sorry darling I must. Come on, let’s go and comb them out properly”. Hubby, it was plain to see, had never been more relieved to know his kids had lice and, let off the hook, he jumped up and said, somewhat brightly, “You do the girls; I’ll go and attack the kitchen”.
Half an hour later when the sobs of two young girls had subsided, I walked into a gleaming kitchen just as Hubby was putting the dishwasher tablet into the machine.
“All done?” he asked, putting his arm around me, “You should go and work for Rentokil”, he bent down and nibbled my neck, “Mmm, there’s a thought; I rather like the idea of you in a florescent pink overall”. Just as he was about to kiss me, our teenage son stormed into the kitchen.
“Where the bloody hell did you get that new cat from? It’s jumping in fleas. I’m covered in bites look”, and lifting up his t-shirt revealed his skinny, young torso dotted with red marks.
“The thing is mum, the other two cats will have them as well. Ugh”, he said, shivering, “This house is alive with parasites”.
“Well”, said Hubby sarcastically, “considering that you still owe me approximately fifty quid from your little day trip to London including the congestion charge, the petrol, supper on the way home not too mention a day off work, then I fully concur that this family is indeed one great, collective, bloodsucking, leech”.
“FrontLine. That’s what the cats need”, I said quietly.
“Living in this family is like being on the bloody front line”, said Hubby, as yet another weekend hit the dust.