My ex-wife wants to come to Cape Town for a holiday in December. Apparently it’s “too expensive” to book into a B&B, so she expects Muggins here to put her up for a fortnight. She believes that if she starts softening me up early, I’ll eventually crack and agree to let her invade my spare room.
Frankly, I would rather die first.
She is the worst house guest in the entire world (well, almost). Ambitious cockroaches study her habits before embarking on any major infestation. I suspect she is possessed by Azfilthyazel, the most senior of Hell’s sloth demons; answerable only to Lucifer himself. The fact that not a single one of her friends is prepared to offer her accommodation – at least, not more than once – suggests that I’m not alone in thinking this.
I have told her over a thousand times (“no, no, a thousand times no!”) that I’m not prepared to have her defile my comfort zone, but she simply refuses to hear my refusals. Every so often I offer a quiet prayer of thanks to the Flying Spaghetti Monster that she doesn’t work in telemarketing.