So, here's the deal, right? Do not go tampon shopping when you actually have your period in the middle of the day. It's so bad for you, I expect that in the near future there will be pills that make this occasion more bearable. Not only do you look and feel like shit (mainly because your tits are the size of melons and you forgot to wear a bra because you cannot be placed under any undue discomfort) but you will run into your ex-boyfriend's mother - the one with the really good skin - and she will stop to chat and even hug and kiss you.
I turned the corner on the tomato sauce aisle (an error, but fairly apt given my most horrendous state of womanliness) and committed to said aisle. I was half way down, day dreaming about Jake Gyllenhall dressed in school uniform, when the breezy lady broze directly into my line of sight.
Ex-Mother-In-Law: Pant! How lovely to see you.
The Pant: (As lovely as, say, world famine?) You too! (slightly overdone interest) How are things?
EMIL: Oh they're good. How's The Daughter?
TP: She's fine thanks - big. Just turned five. Such a joyous little being.
EMIL: Oh, how lovely. Well, you know Geek Ex-Boyfriend With A Perm got married the other day.
TP: I did know that (I took great delight in perusing his wedding photographs on Facebook and laughing at his great girth and her hideous hair do). I saw it on Facebook. It looked lovely. Really (fucking ugly).
EMIL: Ah it was. So how's that man of yours in Jo'burg?
Really? Am I seriously going to be characterised for the rest of my natural life by a relationship I had with Larry?
TP: We split up (but I imagine you know this because you do seem to know far too much about my life without ever having contact with me).
EMIL: (fake concern) Awww. I'm so sorry, Pant-
TP: Don't be. I'm not.
EMIL: Well, that's good. Met anyone else?
What I couldn't tell the woman was that I'd been in the process of turning out the biggest bunch of weeds - not least of all The Biggest Cocksucker - to open up my diary for men with a more socially acceptable appeal.
TP: Well, there's my twenty year old hottie hot pants. But he's young.
EMIL: Oh my!
TP: And dirty.
What I refrained from telling her is that my twenty year old hottie hot pants has been in scant contact of late. Apart from, of course, the dop n dial that I handed over to The Incubator to handle. And the late night sms. A "please call me".
I guess The Future Ex Mother In Law hasn't given him his pocket money this week.