Free Fandango in the Apse! by Jane Taylor Page A

and been so upset
by his uncharacteristic lapse in the potty training area, I had put them
outside the kitchen door to deal with later and never given them another
thought. 
    As I went to get a shovel, an evil thought struck me.  The perfectly
malicious plan I was hatching perked up my spirits to such an extent, I decided
to cook Eddie his favourite curry for dinner.
    ‘How’s your curry?’  I asked, as I sat watching him eat later that
evening.
    ‘A bit spicier than usual, but lovely all the same, are you not having
any?’
    ‘No, I ate with the kids, I wasn’t sure what time you’d be home,’ I
replied, as I watched Eddie clear his plate. 
    ‘Do you want some more?’ 
    I had a hard time hiding my satisfaction as I served another portion of
curry and rice to my unsuspecting husband.  I did pause to reflect on the
amount he ate – this was the time his increasing paunch, receding hairline, and
overfed face, inspired his nickname “The Pig” in my mind.  It was a puzzle to
me how he managed to attract women at all. 
    Later, as I washed up I had no remorse about the fact that in the very
pan I was holding, along with the curry, I had cooked Sam’s underpants.  Yes! 
The very ones that had been through Jester’s digestive system.  So what do you
think?  A terrible thing to do or did he get his just deserts?  I’ll let you
decide.
    The next morning when Eddie surfaced for breakfast, I did have a few
qualms over my culinary offering the previous night though.  He had a sickly
looking pallor and refused anything but dry toast.
    ‘Are you OK?’ I asked.
    ‘No, I’ve a bit of a gippy tummy.  I’ve been up and down to the loo all
night.’
    ‘Must have been something you ate.’ Ooh, I’m a bitch!
    ‘I knew I shouldn’t have had that prawn sandwich for lunch yesterday. 
The last time I had one, it made me sick, do you remember?’
    ‘I do, you can never trust prawns, Eddie…don’t have them again.’
    I really am a wretch!  But hey-ho, a woman scorned and all that.
    In the following months, I dedicated myself to finding ways of annoying
Eddie.  A nice, deep scratch along the side of his shiny, new company car.  “Accidentally”
throwing his wallet, cards and all, in the rubbish on dustbin day.  Shrinking
his golfing woollens in a boil wash – OK, they appeased my anger, but really
they were hollow victories, what I needed was something big.
    You know the old saying, “opportunity knocks when you least expect it”, well,
I can attest to the trueness of that statement.  My opportunity came in the
form of Father Daly.  I know I wasn’t going to mention his name, but it seems silly
to keep referring to him as Richard Chamberlain, so his name was Father Michael
Daly, and the devil take me, if any of you know him.
    As I mentioned earlier, the children’s un-baptised state had been
bothering me.  They were born with original sin and my ingrained Catholic upbringing
kept reminding me that it was up to me to get them purified… pronto!  Original
sin, for those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about, is supposedly a
sin inherited by all descendants of Adam.  He and the luscious Eve buggered it
up for the rest of us when they ate the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden. 
Right or wrong?  I’ve no idea, but “just in case”, I felt the urge to go along
with it.
    ‘Come in, Mrs Roberts, I’m Father Daley.’
    At this point, I should tell you I was expecting a grouchy, old fart, who
breathed fire and brimstone and smelled faintly of whisky, much like the
priests I remembered from childhood.
    The man holding the door open for me to enter the house shared by all
three of the priests of the parish, was none of those things.  He was young for
a start, he was smiling and he was gorgeous.  Bugger, I thought, if I’d known
he was a priest here, I’d have been tempted back to mass long ago.
    ‘Thank you, father,’ I managed after a determined effort to stop myself
gawking