I owe the invention of Smug Married Couples entirely to Helen Fielding, the amazingly talented and funny author of Bridget Jones's Diary. If there is anyone in the universe who has not yet either read the books or seen the movies, I strongly suggest doing just that. IT IS LIKE LOOKING IN A MIRROR.
Oh, and I just saw the headline "Romanian president slaps child in face". I know I shouldn't laugh, but god damnit that made me giggle for five straight minutes.
And one more thing: Hold onto your pants, beloved readers. Shit is about to get real. Again.
Chapter Forty-Three: Scrutiny of Festivities
Oh, the wonders of Easter. It was almost upon us, probably. I'd never really gotten the specifics of when Easter was. I knew that it wasn't on a fixed date like Christmas or Halloween, the proper holidays, but it was still an important holiday. It was a holiday where one can eat as much chocolate as one likes. I mean, if that was the rules of Easter, then I pretty much celebrated Easter every day, but still. It was nice to be vilified in one's overeating.
Most importantly of all, it was nearing the one-year anniversary of the day I had said 'I do' and become part of a Smug Married Couple. Lucindy said that I wasn't like the other Smug Married Couples, because I didn't throw fancy dinner parties and attempt to show everyone what a perfect little housewitch I was, and I didn't brag to everyone who would listen about my child's pre-natal spelling test scores. At this, I immediately wanted to throw a fancy dinner party to show everyone that I wasn't a complete spaz in the kitchen, and told Lucindy that being a perfect little housewitch didn't even come into the equation. And WHAT WAS SHE TALKING ABOUT, PRE-NATAL SPELLING TEST SCORES. YOU ARE SURELY MAKING THIS UP. It turned out she was making this up, and my freak-out was for naught. Bloody Lucindy.
Anyway, it was also nearing the time I said I'd return to London to stay at my parents' house. After I'd promised Severus that I wouldn't get mad at him if he wanted to tell me what to do regarding Eric and pina coladas, he'd said something along the lines of 'I know what you get like after a few drinks. You are not going anywhere near him unless I breathalyse you first.' Well, blah to him. As promised, I didn't get angry or sullen, I just thanked him for his input and informed him that I was going to get absolutely squiffy around the next young man my parents decided to introduce me to. Then I had to reassure him that I was kidding before he bludgeoned me with an umbrella. Ah, good times.
So, at five p.m. on a Saturday evening, either a day or a week or something before the actual Easter day (it was on a Sunday, right? I don't know) I bid farewell to the cold, icky dungeons and landed in the lounge room of my parents' place, nearly killing the cat. It wasn't my fault that my parents hadn't seen fit to shut Henry away somewhere, they knew full well what I was like regarding my landings and their alignment with certain cats. Anyway, once Henry had run behind a recliner and hissed at me for daring to invade his personal space with my foot, my parents hugged me and asked WHY ON EARTH Severus hadn't come with me. Of course, I couldn't give them his reply, which was a stern 'I'd rather eat my own toenails', so I just spouted some absolutely filthy lie about him having tons of work to do. Of course, that invited them to speculate on my own workload, to be specific, why I never seemed to be doing any. I reassured them that no, Mother, I'm not whoring myself to my husband in exchange for him doing all the work, I just don't talk about what I do because it isn't very interesting. You'd think that my father, being some kind of senior manager at some boring company for boring people, would know all about boring jobs, but no, he sided with my mother and decided that I must be whoring. Bloody parents. Always assuming I'm in prostitution.
But the point was, the apparition had left me in a worse state than I cared to recall. I felt sick, even, something that I hadn't felt in apparition since I was eighteen. Eventually, my stomach had turned to iron and even the longest-distance apparition caused me nary a flutter, but this time felt like the first.
"Whoa," I muttered, relinquishing my grip on my bag. "Trippy." I moved slowly over and sat on the recliner that Henry had just darted behind, causing some low growls from behind me.
"What's the matter, dear?" my mother queried in her bustling way. I put a hand up somewhat dismissively.
"Nothing," I muttered. "Just a bad trip. My stomach's decided that after thirteen or so years of apparition, it doesn't like it anymore."
"Well, don't be sick on the couches, dear, we've just had them done," was my mother's expected reply. "You know, I myself get quite travel-sick on apparition voyages."
"Yeah," I said, feeling my stomach return to normal. "But you've got the constitution of a duck. You can't even do shots. I saw you try it at the Christmas lunch when I was fourteen. You threw up in Aunt Sally's sink."
My mother went very pink in the face and turned to the fireplace, presumably to avoid my father's incredulous and amused stare. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Rapha," she said. "Now, off to bed with you, or you'll be all grumpy in the morning."
"It's half past five in the afternoon."
"Excellent. The sooner you're in bed, the sooner the Easter Bunny will come."
"Holy shit, I'm still getting eggs at twenty-eight? Sick."
"Rapha! Language!"
"Sorry, Mum. I said holy ship, after the Titanic, but you must have misheard. I read that the hearing's the first thing to go, when you get old."
"Excuse me?"
"It's okay, I'll learn sign language if you need me to."
"Go. To. Bed."
"… Yes Mum."
