Or how I (quite rightly) earned my "la Salope" moniker... The police did what they had to do. They checked the lease (in His Name), confirmed I had to leave the house and ascertained with The Boy's Father that all the furniture + other bits and bobs in the flat were mine. They informed The Boy's Father that he was not to dispose of any of it without my knowledge + agreement and offered to escort me when I wanted to take posession of the stuff again in the future in case I felt The Boy's Father would not comply. Fair game. I picked up The Boy from the neighbour who had been looking after him while we were having our little tête à tête and went back to Kim's. Now I am not just stroppy by nature. I am also fairly vindictive and patient and organised with it. It is not one my most attractive trait. I am working on it, honest (the whole letting go thing). I suppose there is also some truth in the Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned quote. Since the split I had been thinking of ways to get back at him. A lot of the process was done using collective thinking on the phone using the calling card he had forgotten I still had (sweet revenge number one). You can run up quite a total before BT sends the next itemised bill - just trust me on that one. In order to make sure that I could execute any future plan I had an extra key cut (on the advice of a friend). The trick was to put up enough of a argument when it came to hand the key back so that he did not suspect a thing. Before the he called the police, a lot of the planning had been just that. Trying to find the best place to hit so it hurt, making sure the plan was foolproof, this sort of things. Because I am truly evil, and my BF never really liked The Boy's Father, we had come up with amongst other things the following ideas (by the way I would deny any responsibility should anybody use the ideas): Washing an egg (if you wash an egg, it becomes pourous and will absorb most bacteria, the albumen then provides a great growing medium for whatever nasties it has picked up. You can help it on the way by a quick dip in foecal matter - preferably of bird origin), then when the culture was deemed multiplied enough, spread diluted egg whites over the contents of his fridge (this plan was abandoned for the same reasons bacteriological warfare is not normally used very much - it is hard to control + it can backfire. Also it would have been nice to think I had given him the runs in a major way, less nice to think I had killed him by severe food poisoning). Rubbing chillies in every single pair of underpants in his cupboard. Major appeal. We spent hours trying to work out at what point the chillies would start taking effect. Would he get a chance to get on the train to work before it took effect ? Never got round to doing it though (shame). Putting a bit of fish inside the plug of his stereo (his pride and joy so boud to go wherever he went). He does not know one end of a screwdriver to another so it seemed the perfect place. Same as above, gives plenty of room for reworking the plan - hours of it - very thereapeutic. How big should the fishe be, what sort, how to ensure you do not short circuit the whole thing etc... But no, the way became clear when he turned the idea of us staying in the flat for the week-end. If I could not sleep in my own bed, there was no way HE should. Discussed my plan with friends and colleagues who offered their help: two of them offered their garages for storing the stuff, one offered to babysit, my boss offered his services + use of his land rover. P offered his services and his trailer. It went like this. Friday evening, waited to know for sure he had gone to sunny Ireland. Saturday am v.early, Guy helped to dismantle the furniture + got the boxes out of the attic - this allowed him for years to introduce me as "H, who once had her legs wrapped around my ears half way up a step ladder". A bit later saturday am, my boss + P and M move all the heavy stuff to garage number one while I pack the smaller stuff in boxes. Saturday pm we all go to the pub for a well earned beer. Sunday, more packing with Karen as moral support + reading all of The Trollope's love letters to The Boy's Father (went against the way I was brought up - in my house people will not even read a postcard which is addressed to another member of the family - but it had to be done). The girl was soooooo dumb and in luuuuurve. She needed saving. Sunday late afternoon, a phone calll to The Trollope's father, to put him in the picture. The Boy's Father had sort of forgotten to mention that The Boy and I were still very much in the picture when he met The Trollope. The Trollope's father had a good instinct and thought: what he did to another woman he can do to my daughter. The lovebirds had also not spoken of their plan to make a nest in the London flat. The father was not keen on his little 18 year old birdie flying the Irish nest. Sunday night, celebration at Karen's house while The Boy's father rushes to Kim's flat to kill me (his exact words were "if you had been at the flat, I would have got in one way or another and I would have killed you", my answer "it's a good thing I wasn't there then" - talk about stating the obvious). The moral of the story. There isn't one - appart from I am really not a nice person. This is not about morals or justice, just about revenge.
Encounter of the housing kind - episode 4
1.12.03 21:28
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(2.12.03 21:18) Hell hath no fury like a woman scorend. |
