Hi everyone,
Jane is a character who wandered onto my computer screen one day. How I wish she hadn’t. She is very cute. She demanded that I tell her story ( Occupation: Author), which I dutifully did and thought that would be the end of it.
Seems I was mistaken.
She has now become very demanding and is popping up at the most inconvenient of times. (Such as when I am supposed to be working on my novel.)
The only way to get rid of her nagging in my ears, is to write what she wants me to.
I might have to give her her own page.
Here is another installment. I’m sure you’ll hate it. Enjoy!
Regards,
Jane’s Writer-Slave, previously known as Celia.
Another day in the life of Jane:
Jane was having a bad day. So bad that her left eye had started twitching on her way to the Spa and she had to wear those hideous black Prada sunglasses, since her Husband had sat on her favourite pink Chanel pair just that morning and he KNEW those were her favourite.
No-one could see her in the back of the limo as they raced down Main Street, but Jane believed in looking her best no matter the circumstances, so it mattered very much that she was having a bad sunglasses day.
The badness (her word, not mine, cringed the Writer-Slave) started when she asked HIM very politely to ask his new secretary to go out and buy her a new pair. He mumbled something that sounded very much like ‘not-asking-her-do-it-yourself’ as he fled the breakfast table and left for work without their usual pouty kissy-wissy.
Jane slid across the wide backseat of the limo and spilled her G&T. “Larry!” she screeched and knocked on the glass divider behind the driver’s head. “Slow down for God’s sake!”
“I swear that man thinks he is Michael Schumacher,” she huffed and grabbed the door handle as they raced around another corner.
The thought of tall, blonde, German men made her think of the Husband’s tall, blond, non-German-very-American new secretary.
“Why is he refusing to ask her to run errands for me? Mrs Morrison never minded.”
Jane was seriously miffed and her eye was seriously twitching when they stopped in front of the Spa. Larry took an inordinate amount of time to come round and open the door and when he did, she alighted with her nose in the air and deigned to say: “Thank you, Driver.”
You couldn’t get too familiar with the Help; you never knew who was watching.
She thought the salute and low bow he gave her was a nice touch, especially since it was only his middle finger that touched his cap.
“Cute, I might not fire him after all,” she thought as she swept past the girls in the Spa’s foyer.
“Dahling!” she cried and air-kissed her best friend, Cylvia.
To be continued – I hope not soon.
Africa to Asia 