Her semi-tropical fancy had already pictured him, a baby grand Chesterfield, richly upholstered in Scotch tweeds, with, perhaps, if it wasn’t hoping too much, carved Louis XIV legs. He would have semi-circular eyebrows and be a Marathon, non-stop kissist and convincing cuddler.
Together in the gloaming, Oh, my Darling, they would jointly and severally entwine upon the cosy couch, and talk fudge talk and doll’s dialect till their arteries began to harden.
But, oh dear! You know how different real life is to what it would be if it were not different. The door opened, and something entered. Reader, close your eyes. It was chubby, and talked as if his epiglottis was full of cabinet pudding—or even stewed bananas. At sight of his pale blue necktie, in Angie’s heart mortification had already set in. But Angie was brave, and the blood twinkled in her veins. After all, a husband was always a husband, even when he lisped.
“I would like,” he said, if indeed we must call him he, which we really must, temporarily, at least, “I would like to find a female with a lavender soul!”
