Tamil Girl Secretly Captured
Beatrice Shellesworth, matronly and insipid, takes my hand and marvels at how good I look, and how much she missed me at the charity gala last month. I respond with the appropriate noises, the brimming-over enthusiasm which is supposed to tell her how much I regretted having to make the trip to London for the business conference instead. She is not fooled; she knows the game, too, and was playing it long before I entered the scene. Bitch.I hate them all. Myself not least.Then there's the entrance, with its doormen and luxurious red carpeting, and the elegant table with the gilt-lettered parchment, Mr. and Mrs. Joshua Plantagenet. I'm just Mrs. Him.The wine is typical-- the best doesn't get any better if you've had it seven times in the last year-- and the conversation doubly so. This is all building to a fever pitch for me, and with a fixed smile I excuse myself to powder my nose ... and head instead for the exit. My head is ringing, and my ears are buzzing and for some reason. Warning: This pressure cooker could blow up.But being an all American boy/girl I patriotically decided to throw away the warnings and do it like I always had done. Meanwhile, while the jars were in the canner, I started to build the shelves that they would be stored on. I picked up the hammer and was warned to wear goggles and gloves to protect myself. The drill warned me not to touch the bit when moving and to wear goggles and secure loose objects like ties and long hair. The saw warned... well you get the idea. I couldn't stand it and escaped as only a true TV can - I ran into the bedroom and got dressed.At least I tried to. I couldn't help myself; I had to see what those little tags on the clothes said. My bra warned me to wash in cold water and hand dry. My girdle warned me that prolonged squeezing of my abdomen could lead to faintness, intestinal problems and funny marks on my skin. My pantyhose could cause strangled calves if worn too long. Boy was I glad to know that, how.
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