Mrs Voldemort

At its bucolic best the month of May provides us with a welcome respite, like a bridging loan, between a nasty winter and the promise of a summer of delights to come; perchance to barbeque.  At its worst, this May has opened with maypole dancing and fertility rites and closed with a soaking over bank holiday and a massive row in Matalan over socks.  Alphonse likes order in his sock drawer whereas mine is freeform and filled with Wolford delights.  He likes days of the week on the sides, with matching colours on the heels so they can be paired up at the end of the week and strictly nothing Homer Simpson on pain of death.  Albeit I waved him off to Birmingham this morning wearing a Wednesday and a Friday as a mark of protest.  As dawn was struggling into the upright position, Alphonse was attending a course.  Just as women of a certain age are herded into a pen called peri-menopausal, some men of Alphonse's stature become peri-retiremental and it's upsetting his biorythms.  Back to the socks.

On the way to the Matalan checkouts he picked up a bumper pack which I immediately wrestled out of his hands and secured back on the rack.  He was quite affronted for a Virgo,
"I need new socks."
"Buy them from Next like last time."
"These are cheaper." Couldn't fault his penny-pinching ways but I had spotted a hitch.
"And the elastic tops will irritate your legs then it will be my fault.  Stick with what you know."
"Forget it, I'm not going in Next today."  He meant "ever" because I bought the last pack of socks, and the ones before that. He stalked off towards the car muttering.
"I'll just wash some when we get home." And rather than use the usual cool Eco wash cycle with a quick spin, he spent two unhappy hours watching his smalls disintegrate on a boil wash.
Trying to be adult, I waved a flag of truce in the form of a large Pinot Grigio and attempted to offer up a reasonable explanation for my snappiness.
"I know I'm feisty but with all the comings and goings at work I'm even more snitty than usual. But acting out in Matalan was wrong and I'm sorry."  I added a short rundown of the previous week's pain and injustices, especially the part where I'd turned down contracted hours because they offered me less per hour than a 22 year old with no previous work experience. Okay, it was only 1p but I have principles and leaving me £3,000 p.a worse off I found particularly offensive.  Anyone would think I'm rubbish at maths. 
Still, Alphonse had a point and I listened in horror as he drove it home,
"You've not been this tetchy since you left the Body Shop. It's like living with Mrs Voldemort."  He had the decency to say it with a straight face and not call me 'old girl' at any point in the conversation.

Adding insult to injury, the previous weekend I'd had my cards read by accident.  I rocked up at a 'Tea with Spirit' event to see old friends Valerian and JeanGenii; I wanted the tea and a chat, no cake and absolutely no random predictions.  When I got there, I'd been booked in with a medium who reads Native American Power Cards so powerless to resist, I thought I'd give it a go.  In my first seven cards I'd pulled the Raven [what else?] but also a skunk and a weasel.  She [Linda] looked me in the eye and said "Something stinks.  They're trying to rob you of something and no-one's telling you the truth. If I were you, I wouldn't sign it either."  Well that told me.

So I had a lot to think over yesterday and kept a low profile against the squealing backdrop of the Monaco Grim Prix. Imagine it though, the wife of the Dark Lord, "he who must not be named"; she'd be a force of nature wouldn't she?  Tall, elegant, permanently enraged.  If the Voldemorts were real, he wouldn't dare be late home or would he? Ralph Fiennes is the voice of His Lordship and is in bold:
"Where the Hell have you been?  Not out with the Lestrange creature again?"
"Messing with some muggles darling, nothing serious."
"Well your dinner's in the wolverine."
"Never mind my sweet, I had a pie and pint in The Pickled Walnut.  Have you had a lovely day?"
"I bathed the Raven then went to Tesco where they dared to overcharge me."
"Will their boils heal quickly my love or do we have to write a letter of apology?"
"Save the letter for BT who've charged us seventy two pounds for forty two pee's worth of Friends & Family calls."
"We don't have any friends or family."
"Precisely."
"Then we'll reduce their Mumbai call centre to rubble in the morning, shall we?"
"Excellent.  Oh, and clean up after that wretched snake will you?  It's had another of next door's kittens."
Fundamentally, had the same derisory job offer been made to Mrs V, I feel she would've wrenched out her wand, aimed it full in the face of management and yelled "REDUCTO!"  I so wanted to but I'm calmer now.

Tip of the Beak: Ravens everywhere should delight in the news that Richard III's remains are to reside in Leicester Cathedral. Common sense prevails at last.

Raven