Monday, 14 June 2010

The World Cup

Monday, 14 June 2010
A voluptuous woman lounges on a bed. She is very tired, but she has great hair.

A bearded man is next to her.

On the television in the corner is football, with 30 minutes on the clock. It is the World Cup. The contented rhythmic breathing of the couple’s children, who are – at length - finally asleep is, tragically, lost beneath the unrelenting drone of tens of thousands of vuvuzelas.

Woman: Aren’t you going in the bath?
Man: In a minute.

Woman checks weather report on iPhone.

W: When are you going in the bath?
M: After this.
W: But there’s an hour left. You said ‘in a minute.’
M: Mmm.

The woman gets up.

M: Where you going?
W: In the bath.

The woman runs the bath. She catches her reflection in the mirrored medicine cabinet. She cannot hear any vuvuzelas. She smiles -- has great hair. The woman gets in the bath. She applies a face pack. She shaves: legs, armpits. She reclines. She exhales,slowly.

The man enters; sheepish. He is still bearded. He has a newspaper tucked beneath his arm.

W: I should have married for money.
M: Oh?
W: Would that I lived in a house in which I could have a bath without someone coming in to shite while I’m exfoliating.
M: Hard luck, that.
W: Indeed. Do an interim flush as soon as it hits the water, if you love me at all.

A few moments pass.

W: Wash my back?
M: But I’ll miss the football.
W: Hard luck, that.

The woman sits forward. She hands the man a small, orange jar.

M: What the...? Why am I standing in sand?
W: It is Papaya Body Scrub. Now get a handful and scrub my back with it.
M: But I don’t like this stuff. It feels wrong. And also, I’m missing the football.
W: Do it, already.

The woman smiles, slyly. The man leaves, muttering. The woman reclines. She exhales, slowly. Some time passes.  The man with the beard enters; animated.
M: Michael Schumacher is ‘The Stig’!!
W: I know.
M: Oh? I’ll leave you to it, then.
W: (through gritted teeth) Spiffing.

The woman reclines, eyes closed. A few brief moments lapse. The man (bearded) enters again.
M: Australia’s had a man sent off; the Germans are scoring goals all over the place!!
W: Mmm.

The man leaves the room.

The television still displays the football match. The woman dresses.
W: Well, I am as soft as soft can be.
M: Mmm.

The woman retrieves a notebook from a drawer and climbs up onto the bed, next to the man.
The final whistle blows. The man touches the woman’s leg.

M: Are you Professor Softison, who has just recently graduated with Soft Honours from McSoftie University in Softville, and who, being so gifted in the art of Softitiousness now has jam-packed lectures, standing room only, filled with others who can only aspire to such dizzying heights of softillism?

The man’s hand moves up the woman’s leg.

W: Bugger off. I’m writing something.


4 people had something to say about this...:

Fame Throwa said...

That was hillarious.

Mammy P said...

Hahah... thanks girlfran!

Maggie said...

Loved it...sounds so achingly familiar although our 'football' is Formula 1 (and spookily involves discussions about Michael Schumacher).

And do have great hair.


Snaffles Mummy said...

I am not laughing, I am not laughing.

Sorry but at least you got his attention.