11/11/16 Usurped!

Daddy has a new love. And it all happenend because of Facebook.

Daddy loves his cars. As I write this he’s sitting on the sofa next to me, berating the TV because the engine noise doesn’t match the car on the screen. It’s just sheer carelessness on the part of the programme-makers.

Everybody knows what a straight six sounds like’ (that would be everybody except me, then).

He used to drive an old Alfa Romeo, which was beautiful, but needed a major component replacing nearly every month. A mistress would’ve been cheaper to run. When Freddie came along, our immediate needs included both (a) a new house, and (b) a new car. He turned out to be the most expensive surprise 40th birthday present ever (I know Daddy said at my birthday party that he wanted to give me something really special, but I don’t think he was planning to spend quite that much). Anyway, instead of trading the Apha in for a mistress, he traded it for a people carrier that drove like a dented shopping trolley, and had all the build quality of a PoundLand umbrella. He wasn’t sorry when it got rear-ended in Wales – it was a complete write off – and to celebrate he bought a second-hand Jag.

He might as well have taken a mistress because he was absolutely smitten, infatuated, obsessed. He bought it presents, like a leather gaiter for the gear-stick, and gave it’s bodywork  a rub-down every weekend. He joined a Facebook group for Jaguar owners, even though he hates Facebook. And that’s where he found out about the Jaguar Art of Performance Tour. 

And that’s what brought them together.

Daddy and I don’t get a lot of time to ourselves, to be … whatever our names are … instead of just Mum and Dad.  Babysitters are thin on the ground – our parents are getting on in years, Daddy’s brother and sister distance away, and our friends also have elderly parents as well as children, and other commitments, so we don’t like to ask. But by skiving off on a school day it means that my mum only has to endure Freddie’s onslaught for a couple of hours at most after home time, when some of his energy has been dissipated. Don’t get me wrong, Nan and Grandad love having him, but he is a little sod. Typical third child.

So, when Daddy spotted that the Art of Performance Tour was coming to Chalmondeley Castle, on a Friday, we jumped at the chance to spend some quality time together. Or rather , Daddy jumped at the chance of trying out the new F-Pace, and I went along for the free lunch, and a chance to sit in the front of the car a change, instead of in the back making sure Freddie doesn’t climb out of his seat. Once upon a time I might have suggested a detour through the woods on the way home, but those days are long gone, because, of course, the parents of disabled children can’t possibly do that sort of thing, everybody knows that ‘Special Needs mums’ are all dowdy sexless lumps who live in shabby houses that smell of pee (Irony Alert).

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Chalmondeley  Castle – actually a stately home with serrated edges.

And Chalmondeley Castle is where they met. 

He first caught a glimpse of her on the car park as we arrived, flaunting herself in venomous red, the slut. On reflection, booking ourselves onto the afternoon session was a mistake, because it meant we had eaten shortly before being bucketed around the section of the World Rally Championship course that runs through the Chalmondeley Estate, at speeds that wouldn’t be legal on the highway.

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There is such a thing as a free lunch, but it’s served in a saucepan (!)

The sedate ten-minute test drive we were expecting turned out to be a good hour’s drive on a route pre-programmed into the sat-nav. But the F-Pace that Daddy had been so excited about had suddenly lost its appeal; such was Daddy’s pre-occupation with the little madam he’d seen on the car park that he didn’t realise he wasn’t following the presecribed route until he spotted that the road signs had all ‘turned bisexual’ because we’d strayed over the border into Wales. He was anxious to get back to the estate, to grab the chance to get better aquainted  before the event finished.

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The ‘bisexual’ road signs were the first clue that we were lost.


And he certainly did that, and he made me share the experience. Topless in November, she was ‘taut’. She ‘went like the clappers’, and ‘pulled like a train’, and when he properly got her going she rewarded him with the most arousing low,throaty, grunting noise. She was even better ‘in the flesh’ than he had been anticipating.

Because it turns out he knew all along that she was going to be there as well, and that’s why he wanted me to go with him, so that I could meet her too, and experience what it was about her that had caused him to rediscover passion: so that I would really understand his motivation. He wanted me to hear for myself the noise that got him so worked up. Oh, the cruelty! Obviously, there is no way I can ever compete.

We did take a detour on the way home, but only to the chip shop.

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The F-Type that has stolen my husband – the dirty bitch.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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