How to Kill Your Husband PDF Book by Kathy Lette


Click here to Download How to Kill Your Husband PDF Book by Kathy Lette Language English having PDF Size 2.8 MB and No of Pages 292.

I was a forty-three-year-old mother of two when I lost my orgasm. How can you lose an orgasm, you may ask. What is it, a sock’l Is it in some sexual laundry basket waiting to be paired so it can become a multiple orgasm? People often lose things. Their tempers. Their sense of humour. Their figures. (Do the words ‘control top panty hose’ mean anything to you?) Their minds. (Post babies, definitely.

How to Kill Your Husband PDF Book by Kathy Lette

Name of Book How to Kill Your Husband
PDF Size 2.8 MB
No of Pages 292
Language English
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But not their orgasm. I just couldn’t find it. It was more elusive than Peter Pan’s shadow. Believe me, I looked for it harder than they looked for the Bermuda Triangle, Amelia Earhart, the Yeti, the Mane Celeste, the Loch Ness Monster and the scruples of George Bush. Perhaps you think that I, Cassie O’Carroll, am the kind of idiot who always misplaces things?

It is true to say that I can’t find the square root of the hypotenuse either, but that doesn’t make me gnaw holes in my pillow and cry myself to sleep at night. No. My poor muff’s in a huff. My pussy left high and dry: positively Miss Havishamed. And there doesn t seem to be a goddamn thing I can do about it. Mind you, my best friend, Jazz, has lost something much more serious – her husband.

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the internationally famous surgeon, humanitarian and World Health Organisation expert. Dr David Studlands. And under rather suspicious circumstances too. In fact, as I write this. Jazz is being held on suspicion of murder. Which is where this story begins really, in the visiting room of Holloway Prison for women in North London.

‘I’ve been arrested for killing my husband,’ were not words I’d ever expected to hear from the mouth of Jasmine Jardine. ‘I’m having George Clooney’s lovechild,’ perhaps, or, ‘What if PMT is a myth and I’m just a bitch?’ But definitely not this. We watched as she started manically rushing around the kitchen organizing desserts. ‘Even my fantasy life is boring.

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When I order a pizza, the pizza boy is not cute. He’s acned and fat and anyway, after I pay him, he leaves.’ Her valiant attempts to take this lightly were falling flat. She had now laid out twenty plates and was frisbeeing mango slices onto each one like Eanny Craddock on amphetamines. ‘But I didn’t know he was seeking satisfaction elsewhere. I’m obviously too dumb to notice.’

She lifted up a chunk of her blonde hair by way of explanation. ‘If I were a brunette. I’d have been on to him straight away. I suppose he’s only stayed with me for my cooking. An oral orgasm to Doctor Studlands means a fine gourmet meal. Honestly, if I were to serve myself up naked for dinner with a bit of watercress up my bum, David would just ask what’s for dessert.

And tonight it’s papaya, mango and kiwi compote with Lime mint salsa and coconut chocolate cake, as it happens,’ she said, squirting curlicues of cream onto the ziggurat of puddings she’d assembled frenziedly on consecutive plates. ‘Jazz, dah-ling.’ Hannah steadied our friend’s arm. ‘David’s obviously had an erectile problem, but he’s clearly trying to fix that now. This Viagra is obviously for you.’ How to Kill Your Husband PDF Book

I returned with two low-fat muffins. ‘Would madam like the banana Styrofoam or the blueberry Styrofoam?’ But Jazz left her banana cake after one bite because her husband had just emerged, along with the Pop Princess recently appointed a Good Will Ambassador by the UN. We trailed them back to the Savoy Hotel — the more discreet River Entrance.

Studz parked the car on a double yellow line and tossed the keys to the doorman as though this were routine. ‘Maybe they’re just going to the American Bar, for a cocktail of pureed unhusked wheat kernels or whatever the hell is her preferred noncarcinogenic tipple,’ I suggested feebly. Jazz just stared grimly ahead. Here, by the river, the streets were creamy with fog.

Having parked, we just sat watching the leering grille of Studz’s Jaguar. After one hour, I reminded Jazz that a celebrity is nothing but a nonentity who got lucky. The Thames twitched beside us, pale as milk in the misty moonlight. After two hours, I pointed out how one day Kinkee’s youth would fade and she’d end up going ‘Whoo, Whoo’ behind a J-Lo female impersonator tribute band. How to Kill Your Husband PDF Book

My only answer was the seagulls squawking like teething babies. I tried to mark geometry sheets by the streetlamp glow, ‘An angle has wings and comes from God’, but quickly lost the will to live. After three hours, my best friend started crying without any noise at all; she just hunched there, shuddering.

What teachers drink in the staffroom tells you a lot about them. Most stagger into school clutching Starbucks hard-core espresso. Mr Scroope is a milky tea, two sugars type. Perdita — a rosemary- infused herbal. The rest of the day we boil the old kettle full of limescale and drink randomly from ironically sloganed mugs — Teachers Do It With Class, Teachers Make You Do It Till You Get It Right.

Perdita’s tea mug, on the other hand, was sacrosanct. It was also emblazoned, ominously, with Best Teacher. I slump onto a threadbare sofa which resembles a yak that has been dead for some time and sip a cup of staffroom coffee. It tastes as lukewarm as I feel. I dwell dispiritedly on my past week. Like tidemarks left around the bath, like toenail clippings abandoned on bedside tables. How to Kill Your Husband PDF Book

The evidence has begun to mount up that Rory has truanted from the How To Be A Good Husband School. Whoever said, ‘Life is just one thing after another’^ For working mothers it’s just the same thing, again and again and over and over. But at a very fast pace. Like jogging in quicksand. For working mums, every day is a lot like holding a live hand- grenade with the pin pulled half-out.

No matter how much I wanted to be one of those women who can change a nappy with one hand whilst whipping up a souffle with the other at the same time as I’m taking a conference call, what I had become, instead, was a cliche. When I heard those homilies coming out of my mouth like, ‘Where were you born?

In a tentV it’s as though I’ve been secretly brain-washed during my sleep by suggestive tapes entitled Wifely Cliches, Vol. 2. Was it any wonder that by Friday night I’d developed the demeanour, aching legs and mood swings of a long-haul flight. My mother laughed caustically. ‘Wait until you both retire and he discovers the Internet, dear. How to Kill Your Husband PDF Book Download

Whenever your father gets back from a trip he rushes into the study, embracing his PC crying, “Hi, honey. I’m home.” I mean, he completely ignores me all day, even eats his meals at the computer, then comes to me for a bit of slap and tickle at night! When we’ve hardly even spoken! It’s bloody infuriating.’ My heart sank. Is this what I had to look forward to?

‘But haven’t you talked to Dad about it? Haven’t you complained?’ ‘Talk? Oh no, dear. There’s no point. Wives must just drink gin and bear it,’ she quipped, topping up my glass. I may have started to resemble her physically, but did I really want to turn into my mother emotionally? To become acquiescent and compromising?

To wander around, endlessly sighing, with my freeze-dried feelings and vaccuum-packed dreams? My mother may have pressed Ctrl Alt Delete on her selfesteem, and Jazz’s marriage may have been Bngadoon-ing before her eyes, but mine was not melting into the mist. It was just that Jazz was so unhappy I’d begun to get maritally psychosomatic. How to Kill Your Husband PDF Book Download

Yes, that was it! I’d started to develop divorce symptoms. But Rory was not lazy or misogynistic or emotionally inarticulate. Okay, recently the air had been seeping out of my marriage like a tyre with a slow puncture. But it was time to patch things up. My girlfriends warned me I was gullible … I only wish I’d believed them.

I was sitting astride my husband, pitching precariously like a retired rodeo rider. It was Saturday afternoon, the kids were at the cinema, the surgery had closed at one and we were ‘liaising’ to ‘rekindle our passion’. I attempted another halfhearted kiss, avoiding Rory’s beery breath and quite possibly the food he had stuck between his teeth.

I remembered fondly when we were drunk on nothing but excitement. The Annie Oakley routine was chafing so I dismounted, positioning myself robotically first this way, then that. It was not fore but boreplay; a total waste of leg waxing. I snorted with tedium — a noise Rory evidently mistook for a groan of passion as he then began tweaking this and twanging that. How to Kill Your Husband PDF Book Free

His touch felt as erotic as a wet shower curtain sticking to my body. My responses were automatic, like the reflexes of a knee when hit by a hammer. God. What had I become? A claml Did all married couples go through this routine of pawing each other uselessly until one or other passed out? He persevered for another, oh, two seconds tops, then licked his finger to manufacture some moistness.

It was then it struck me that I was truly miserable. To bring about a rapid conclusion, I wet my own finger and tickled his prostate — a sexual shorthand learned by most bored and busy wives. Rory ejaculated with all the exhilaration of a burp. As he showered, I lay in a bed which smelled of nothing but the meaninglessness of our encounter.

Rory splashed back into the room, more or less wearing a towel. He opened the door leading onto the hall and a German Shepherd with stitches bounded onto the bed, my brand new and now half-gnawed leopardskin slipper between his foaming incisors. The first surprise was actually pleasant. How to Kill Your Husband PDF Book Free

I was in the staffroom when Scroope strode in to announce that he’d had a change of heart about my Science Museum excursion. This was due to the number of disappointed letters he’d received from parents. He grudgingly congratulated me on having the foresight to book the museum trip a year in advance, reiterating for the benefit of the ‘chalk and talkers’, how much the Inspectors approved of field trips.

‘Therefore, I’m allowing you to take your class. As planned,’ he pronounced crisply. As he then lectured me on Health and Safety and the endless Risk Assessment forms I would need to fill in i.e. risk of choking to death on a grape in the museum cafeteria, risk of falling into a canal, risk of a terrorist attack; and whether or not the perceived risks were high, medium or low.

I sneaked a glance at Perdita, hunched over her herbal tea. She was giving me a splenetic stare. Saying that Perdita was competitive and jealous is like saying that A1 Qaeda are only a little fanatical. Risk assessment for Perdita back-stabbing me was very, very high. I feared for my promotion more than ever. How to Kill Your Husband PDF Book Free

I was ambushed by my next’ surprise whilst ambling down Marylebone High Street the following Saturday morning on my way to collect Jenny from her drama class. A sleek black Merc purred past me before coming to a tyre screeching halt halfway over the zebra crossing. As pedestrians scattered, the driver’s window whooshed down and Jasmine’s highlighted head popped out.

Billy Boston was not that hard to spot. A Pointillist portrait of a naked Pamela Anderson lay supine on his left bicep; Marilyn Monroe on the other. He had small, close set eyes, which made me wonder if the guy’s frontal lobe had been hammered. They were eyes that screamed ‘maximum security prison’.

He looked so much like a hardened criminal, I couldn’t believe that the bar manager wasn’t already sending off the CCTV footage to the police. If Jazz, who was wearing what can only be described as Slapper Chic, had been a dog, she’d have been sniffing at his crotch. I made my way towards them through the Boom Boom bar, which was full of sherbet-eye-shadowed teenage girls and their scrofulous. How to Kill Your Husband PDF Book Free

Shaggy-haired male companions, dancing like things in pain, curling and coiling and jumping from foot to foot. There wasn’t a defined side-parting in sight. But past the dance floor, there was another breed prominent. The forty-year-old hottie. From their hipster jeans to the Justin Timberlake tracks on their iPods, these women were the opposite of the alcoholic Mrs Robinson.

And Jazz was the most glamorous of them all. My best friend patted the bar stool next to her and introduced Billy, whose opening remark was, ‘More posh totty, eh? I like youse birds from the big end of town.’ He crushed my fingers in a chiropractic handshake. ‘Youse talks so good, ja know? Youse have got articulate-ness.’

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