Diary of an Unsmug Married Read Online Free PDF

our posh friends anyway – we don’t mention Josh’s gang lord credentials.)
    In response to Johnny, I just wimp out and sympathise with his difficulty, as if I understand it all too well. What on earth is wrong with me? I have about as much idea of what his life is like as he probably has of mine, though I bet his wife doesn’t shop at Primark.
    I still have no idea what he looks like, either – though I’m hoping he was that nice one with the dark hair and really blue eyes who used to catch the school bus with me. I’d better check if he wears glasses now, though, and – if so – what the frames are like. You can’t be too careful, in this day and age.
    THURSDAY, 27 MAY
    I have cheered up slightly. One of the girls in Primark tells me that they don’t get staff discount, because the clothes are so cheap already.
    However, my good mood doesn’t last past lunchtime, when Greg throws a dart at The Boss’ picture (displayed on the dartboard hidden in the archive cupboard) and it misfires, leaving me with no choice but to take him to A&E. fn15
    Now he has an eye-patch, and sang Gabrielle songs in the car all the way home. My ears feel as if they’re bleeding. I wouldn’t mind, but that’s not the end of today’s medical emergencies.
    ‘I had to go to the doctor today,’ says Dad.
    ‘Good God, what’s the matter?’ I say.
    You can say this to Dad. You never, ever , say it to Mum, unless you have nothing to do for the rest of your life – but Dad never goes to the doctor.
    ‘Well, I had an erection when I woke up—’ he says, before I manage to interrupt.
    ‘ Way too much information,’ I say.
    ‘Well, your father’s all man.’ Dad pauses while I make a vomiting noise, and then continues, ‘And, anyway, when I looked down, there it was – all bent.’
    ‘What?’ I say. (I really should know better by now.)
    ‘Bent. My pe—’
    ‘Yeah, okay. Do we have to go into this?’ I say, feeling somewhat desperate.
    ‘Just listen now, Molly. This is interesting, especially as you work in politics.’
    Dad might be right, actually. I’ll be fascinated to know what a bent willy has to do with politics. Not to mention how it persuaded him to visit his doctor on the day it occurred, unlike any of the genuine emergencies he’s ignored in the past.
    ‘Well, the angle it was at made my penis look foreshortened,’ says Dad, as if that explains everything. Which I suppose it probably does.
    ‘So what exactly is wrong with you?’ I say.
    ‘Peroni’s Disease. That’s what Bill Clinton had, so I’m not too worried now. It obviously doesn’t affect performance.’
    On that pseudo-political note, Dad rings off, while I wonder why a bent willy would be named after a fizzy beer.
    I look it up online and, having discovered that the correct spelling is Peyronie’s, I’m hoping that this will be the last that I hear of Dad’s bent appendage tonight, but Dinah makes sure there’s no chance of that.
    ‘Have you spoken to Dad?’ she screams down the phone. ‘Disgusting! He’s disgusting . You’ll never guess what he’s just told me—’
    ‘Yes, Dinah, I know. He’s already phoned me,’ I say. ‘So you really don’t have to—’
    ‘But don’t you think he’s disgusting ?’ she shrieks.
    Honestly, I may as well not have said anything at all. Nothing stops Dinah when she’s in full flow.
    ‘We should bloody well report him to someone. Imagine ringing up your daughters and telling them about your bent willy! Don’t you think we should report him for child abuse, or something like that?’
    ‘Dinah,’ I say, lighting yet another cigarette, ‘has it occurred to you that both you and I are technically middle-aged? I don’t think child abuse would apply.’
    ‘ Middle - aged? ’ she yells; and then she hangs up. Sometimes you’d swear my sister’s in as much denial about the passing of time, as she is about the absence of her husband, John. She says he’ll be back, ‘as soon as he’s