Relatives! Who’d have them?

This is an unpublished post, a musing on finding the traitorous youngest sibling naïve and unaware of events as a result of spending her adult life as a naval pot-walloper.

The mother of Medusa loaded more unwanted trash onto me by way of photographs of her daughter’s second set of nuptials. The clear sparkling night lights of the river cruise reception couldn’t dislodge the unpleasant sense of turpitude that surrounded this most pedestrian of brides. I’m sure that even the acclaimed photographic skills of Cecil Beaton would have been extended in tarting-up the malevolent countenance of this daughter of a blood relative. Fearing a second glimpse of any of these shots could arouse the petrification god, I abandoned them on the kitchen table. A friend saw the images,”Gee, I don’t know about that one, love,” offered a frowning Tim recoiling from the visage, a harsh judgment from one usually too polite and discreet to offer personal opinions.

Within weeks of the travesty, the hapless groom eluded the Gorgon and eloped with paramour-in-waiting. The former serviceman had regained a semblance of self-respect and attributed his discriminatory error to delayed shock after witnessing decapitated Rwandan heads being kicked around in an impromptu football game by the victors. In time he’ll understand the futility of excuses and just enjoy the day. The pair had started banging at primary school so a decade on, via the curse of familiarity, he wanted out.

Normal young men automatically follow instinct and bed anything that moves, with whom a moot point and always more than ready for a bit of fresh, in any case. Boss-bitch’s insistence won the day of course and a marriage was announced, but his body wasn’t meant to be her toy. Wiser men have made observations about premarital sex and marriage and pouring sand on a well oiled machine and so forth. I understand the lovers share an affinity to this day.


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