Red Sparrow

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red sparrow vanessa wilde

Honestly, all this sex we’ve been having. My wrists are so weak I can hardly type.

So, I promised to bring you up to speed with the General Smith scandal. Remember I had that bag of charred papers shoved in my garage? A few days later I get a knock at the door and it’s the Military Police (this time they haven’t come to see Sienna) they’ve come to take ‘the evidence’ away.  One of the detectives is has a thin paisley tie and looks like DCI Meadows out of ‘The Bill’, (who I, incidentally, met in my 20s and asked me out for a drink in his native Brentford. He had cherry red Saab convertible and was very proud it.) The other is skinny, anaemic, with haunted eyes like Mackenzie Crook. He leans forward to look into the house and the stench of stale fags hits me.

I call Si to make sure I am supposed to hand over ‘the swag’, he tells me they are working for him. He’s coordinated the whole operation! So I park the kids in front of Mr Tumble and open the garage door, just as Fiona Smith drives into the Close at 90mph. She gets out of the car and wants to know what’s going on so I tell her the council are taking away a dead fox I found on the road and, of course, she doesn’t believe me because of how they are dressed but it’s all I could think of. The detectives shove the bin bag in the boot of their Ford and drive off. “There’s a distinct smell of burning,” says Fiona, nose in the air.

“I know,” I say, “I’m not proud of it but I tried to burn the fox.”

She shakes her head and marches back to her house. “Bloody neighbours!”

And this is the really annoying part, two days later we are up in Wiltshire at my parents’, when the Military Police and the Met Police do a 5am dawn raid, kicking the Smiths’ door down, arresting Fiona and General Jeremy, confiscating their phones, laptops, computers and removing box upon box of files and paperwork AND I MISSED IT. Mandy, Buck, Dr Nick and Dr Anna saw the whole thing because the cops made sure the whole neighbourhood was alerted by sounding their sirens as they entered The Patch. Mandy said she saw the ‘suspects’ handcuffed, bundled into two police cars and blue lighted off for questioning. AND I BLOODY MISSED IT.

And the latest is that they think she’s working for THE RUSSIANS and has been informing Moscow of British military ops for years. Fiona, is, basically a Red Sparrow! (But an old minging one compared to Jennifer Lawrence) Which explains the kinky sex and dominating Jeremy.  And all the while she’s been crusading about nursery school teachers, broken antique thrones, walls, wendy houses, chalk marks and parking permits – now that’s what I call deep cover.

They are both denying the charges but Si says the evidence is overwhelming. So it’s all been a bit of a change from the habitual pondering over green shitty nappies (teething or bacterial infection?), countless episodes of Topsy and Tim and their bloody mother grinning like a goon and one of Sienna’s friends puking all over the Franco Manca pizzas at a recent playdate. We have had a taste of espionage. Oh, and Humphery Hurtwood has apparently skipped off to South America with his big wodge of wonga (and big hands) so I think that brings us about up to date.

Tomorrow I’m off glass blowing in Totnes for my Country Matters challenge and I’m taking Mandy as the photographer. We can’t wait.

I’m off to ice my wrists now (and other bits). Honestly, I’m glad the holidays are over and Simon’s back to work and we can go back to a normal sex-starved marriage again. This Red Sparrow is going back to being a boring House Sparrow. Oh, nice touch, Vita has just punched her milk across the kitchen. Did I tell you we’ve taken to calling her Grant because of her outbursts of violence and her first word: MUM – which she shouts like Grant Mitchell at the top of her baby lungs. MUM?! Now she’s throwing cucumber at me. Life is beginning to feel back on an even keel.

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Whisky n’ Mama

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So. Where was I?  I’ve been distracted by a wonderful dream last night where I was at a bar, a dimly lit bar with leather chairs and sofas, with Martin Clunes from Doc Martin and Men Behaving Badly. I’d met him outside near the sea somewhere in England. I was swigging a miniature whisky when I was randomly introduced to him.  He asked me if I was a whisky drinker and I lied and said ‘yes’ and that’s when he asked me out for a drink in this dark bar.

After listing whiskies I had heard of and correctly categorising them as having a heavy peat or mild peat taste – I said Talisker and Jura were heavy peat and Glenmorangie, Glenfiddich and Aberlour were milder, but I didn’t have a bloody clue whether that’s right. I still don’t.  Please comment if you know.

Anyway, I then confessed I was talking out of my bottom and hadn’t a clue what whiskies I liked if any, and that made him like me more. And the rest of the dream was spent with him educating me and my palate on whiskies of the world and, even though there wasn’t a hint of sex, it was one of the sexiest dreams I’ve ever had.

Which is a fabulous way to start a day. Male or female, trans or + (not sure what the last one is but it makes me feel zeitgeisty), married, civil partnershipped or single – a lovely hot dream is good for morale. And so is a lovely shag. Still on a high of Martin Clunes, I initiate nooky with Si, our bodies still warm and relaxed from sleep, until suddenly we hear the thunderous patter of two tiny feet and – urgh! – Sienna jumps on Simon, knees him the gonads and blows a raspberry on his head. He is now writhing in pain like he’s been shot and is shouting at Sienna ‘to be more careful’ which causes her to start wailing, which wakes Baby Beelzebub who adds to the general commotion by screaming at the top of her significant lungs.  I try to cling onto Simon’s hand and onto my thoughts of Martin Clunes, but Simon yanks his hand back to quickly protect his balls from a second body slam from Sienna. Martin and the whisky bar is fading. Must save the dream. Where’s the save button? It’s gone.

So, back to the story. Where did I get to?  So much has happened on The Patch since the last instalment, including two very exciting things.  One, I saw Dr Nick NAKED. And, two, a hot brain surgeon has moved in with his family and I literally can’t take my eyes off him. Think Idris Elba meets Simon Webbe from Blue but with the brains and northern charm of Professor Brian Cox, formerly the frontman of Inspiral Carpets. And Simon is agog at his successful company director of a wife, who is slim but booby (she hasn’t ‘run her tits off’ – Si doesn’t like that) and, given she’s had two children, is an inspiration. I feel a jog coming on because I need to get this carcass moving.

So, and I am getting to the point, incredibly slowly, I grant you, THEY moved into Fiona and General Jeremy Smith’s house YESTERDAY because the Smiths have gone. But Doctor Nick NAKED?!  I was on my way back from having a vast amount of gin at Mandy’s house and dancing to the Scissor Sisters’ greatest hits, glass in hand, when I looked up and saw Nick at an open window bollock naked, just out of the shower, his ripped torso glistening. He had a big stretch and must have gone up on tiptoes because that’s when I got a glimpse of his tackle and he noticed me and hit the floor as if taking cover from incoming fire.

By the way, did I tell you the Smiths got arrested?

No? Well, that’s going to have to wait until next week because Vita’s having a nap, Sienna’s in front of ‘Jungle Book’ and Si is literally pawing at me saying ‘we have a sex window’. (We also have a naughty cupboard but that’s another story.)  It’s all the fresh air camping on the Isle of Wight and in the Brecons – we’ve been getting back to nature and are now rampant rabbits.

See you next week with a big juicy bone of a story. And speaking of juicy bones …

 

 

Let’s Talk About Sex Baby

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Let's talk about sex baby vanessa wilde

“Have you phoned your parents yet? We need childcare,” I say surfing babysitting websites in bed, still unable to drag my sorry hung-over carcass out of it. My head is throbbing and my breasts feel like they’ve done work experience at Yeo Valley.

I look at Si. He still can’t quite look me in the eye, having found me spooning with Doctor Nick in the small hours, after returning with Sienna from A&E.

“You never do that with me,” says Simon sitting on the bed, Vita in his arms.

Me: “Do what?”

Si: “Cuddle up like you did with Doctor Nick. You don’t.  I try to spoon you and all I get is thanks, now f*ck off and goodnight.”

I laugh.

Si: “It’s not funny. I’ve done my best to be sensitive to your needs but you’ve shut up shop and I need sex. We need sex.”

“That’s why we are going on a two and half thousand pound holiday to Italy – doh – to have SEX.”  Sienna walks in and looks quizzically at us both. We hold our breath waiting for her to say the s-word. She doesn’t. Instead she climbs into bed with me for a cuddle.

Simon is pole-axed. “Two and a half grand? TWO AND A HALF GRAND?! We don’t have any money!”

I cuddle Sienna a little too tightly. “Ow!”

Me: “Lower your voice, Si.”

Si: “Lower your expectations.”

Me: “That’s why I married you.”

Si: “Cheap.”

Me: “Unlike the holiday which is about us being together and reconnecting.”

Si: “I get that but why does it have to be so expensive.”

Me: “Because I think we’re worth it but we’re not going anywhere unless we can find someone to look after the girls.”

Sienna: “Mummy, my arm really hurts.”

Me: “My poor little poppet.  What else is Daddy going to do? You put athlete’s foot cream on her fandango, take their toys to a war zone, lock us out of the house, don’t put her bed rail up so she falls out and now you begrudge us our first holiday in nearly three years.” I say, tears welling up as I move myself with my own heartfelt words.

“Naughty Daddy!” Shouts Sienna and Vita trumps on his hand.

“Jesus! Of course, Mummy’s perfect even though she went binge drinking with her friends and was found cuddling the bloody neighbour!”

I try to stifle a snort. Si and I look at each other, our eyes twinkling. We burst into laughter. “Bring on Italy,” he says clambering onto the bed to kiss me. “You’re right – sod it. How many days?”

Me: “Five.”

Si: “What for two and a half grand?”

Me: “Let it go.”

Si: “Where are we staying – a palace?”

Me: “Yes. Call your parents. We need childcare,” I say handing him the phone.

Si: “Okay, okay. But what about your Mum?”

I shake my head. He sighs and dials his parents’ number. It rings out so he leaves a message.  “I’m not holding my breath,” he says.

“And I’m not taking the girls to Positano,” I say.

Si: “Well, you’re going to have to work on my Dad.”

I groan, putting a pillow over my head.  Sienna jumps on top of it.  I will do anything to get to Italy. Anything! Even sweet-talk Simon’s father who Si would describe as a straight-talking, paternal Jock (Scot). I, however, would suggest tricky and reminiscent of the Dickensian patriarch Mr M’Choakumchild in Hard Times is more accurate.

Habitually I am able to charm the elderly into submission (having dated a few Saga-louts in my twenties, including Humphery Hurtwood, a naughty equestrian with hands the size of dinner plates), with a little saucy humour and the heave of my ample bosom it’s been enough to make any sanguine crusty crack a smile, but not Edwin Kettle. He has a steadfast immunity to my wiles and is deeply suspicious of anyone who hasn’t put their hand up a cow’s backside. And I’ve done a lot of things in my time but that particular pleasure has eluded me.

“Right, I’ve left a message; your turn. Try your Ma again.”

I call Granny and Roge who been angry since the Salisbury incident (not Nobuchok, the other crisis involving soft toys on The Plains). In fact, it’s more that I left them alone to cope with the children in order to go drinking with my wayward older sister, which they find unforgivable.

“Hello Granny,” I say upbeat.

“Hello,” she says coolly.

I tell her about Sienna’s green-stick fracture to her wrist and Granny defrosts in seconds, wanting to know how her little sunbeam is.  I tell her I was out with some girlfriends at the time.

She groans. “Did you drink too much?”

Me: “Yes.”

Granny; “You’ve got to stop this, you’re nearly 40.”

“I’m 34! Si was looking after them and forgot to put up her bedrail.” I say, throwing him under the bus.

Granny: “Typical.”

Me: “I know, he does one night and she ends up in A & E.”

Granny: “Men!”

Si rolls his eyes and leaves the room. I imagine he’s sneaked off for an hour visit to the loo with the newspapers but miraculously he returns having folded the washing.

“We’re not all bad, Granny,” he says loudly.

I tell her he’s folded the laundry.  She says I don’t know I’m born, Roge hasn’t lifted a finger for the past 49 years, which I know isn’t true but it makes me laugh.  Si is laughing that now Roge is getting it in the neck instead of him.  I am glad to be back on good terms with Granny, we clash from time to time but it’s never for very long because we love each other dearly.

I’m just about to ask about next week when she reads my mind, “Listen, your father and I have spoken and now we’re feeling a bit stronger – we think we can manage the little ones.”

And instead of saying thank you, I say. “I think it might be a bit much so why don’t you just have Sienna and I’ll ask Edwin and Penny if they’ll have Vita in Parracombe (the farm in Devon).”

Granny likes the sound of this plan very much. “Because Sienna doesn’t wake up as early as Vita, does she?”

Me: “No, not ’til 7.30.”

Granny: “That’s still very early but Roge can do the morning shift until I’m ready at 10.” (Granny doesn’t do mornings).

We organise the drops off plan and I hang up. “One down. One to go.”

Si: “You lied and are going to hell.”

Me: “If I told her Sienna gets up at 5 she wouldn’t do it.”

My phone pings; it’s Mandy WhatsApping me: “I just drank your f***ing b milk in my coffee!!!!! I didn’t put it on Buck’s cornflakes cos I realised it was gross but he used it in my coffee (he takes his black). Just made myself sick. Hate you – all your fault. [PUKE FACE]

***

Some hours later, Simon’s father calls.  Si spends 15 minutes buttering him up and I am supposed to close the deal.  “Well, I’m glad the bull’s performing well, Dad.”

Edwin: “Yes.”

Si: “Wish this one was.”

Edwin: “What?”

Si: “Just handing you over to Nessa.”

I take the phone and he says: “Now let’s not beat around the bush I know why you’re calling. Penelope and I will have the children on one condition.”

Me: “Okay…”

Edwin: “I’m after some publicity for my new Limousin genomics programme so I’m laying down a Country Matters challenge for you.”

Me: “Right…”

Edwin: “I want you to collect semen from Shakin’ Stevens and I have a feeling you’ll be very good at it.” Bizarrely Edwin names all his bulls after 80s pop stars. I accept his challenge and hang up.

W*nking off Shakin’ Stevens – talk about taking one for the team.

***

 Si is still chuckling about Shakin’ Stevens at bedtime when we fall into our love nest, me, dog tired from my hangover, Simon, dead, from looking after the kids for a whole 24 hour period. Weak.

We cuddle up and start to kiss. My phone pings and we break apart. It’s Mandy on What’sApp. Si sighs. “Parking Nazi is back on Facebook.” And the sad truth is, instead of having sex I swipe to the page and read out the latest missive from Queen Fiona, more excited by Miss Julie calling The General a ‘pr*ck’ and ‘giving him the middle finger’ than the prospect of sex with my husband. Poor Simon.

Still, we’ll always have Italy….