….before lockdown when folk visited, drained your cupboard of booze and still didn’t leave.
“I have come to the conclusion I am a mere list woman…” says Mavis “…with ticks.”
She sniggers at her wit.
I ignore her.
Mavis is on her third processco and will be singing in a minute or worse, blaming “Trump’s hair” for the downfall of mankind”.
I watch her empty her glass.
“Yeah that’s me, a funny woman with profound, “yeah I’ve be been there” stories.” She pours another.
I start to clear a few plates, fluff a few cushions.
“Churning out novels while getting the car service ain’t no picnic; neither is trying to be vegan when you love butter.”
I talk of bedtime, switch off the TV, I even take my bra off and sling it in her face. Does she move?
Not even a blink.
“My life is just one long witty conversation with people I hardly know,” she hiccuped “for hilarious blogs…”
There is no answer to that.
“But success eludes me, like my daughter.”
Here we go…
“She seems to be offline as soon as I am online”.
Mavis empties my last bottle.
“God I am exhausted.”
Aren’t we all.
“I’m fed up looking at my belly and wondering why it insists on looking like I have just swallowed a watermelon.”
We’re now at the depressed stage…
“I jog for Christ sake” she shouts at her stomach; a fart ripples from her chair.
For a funny writer, Mavis is anything but. She is one of those visitors you’d hide from-if you could; except she never knocks, just waltzes in with half a bottle of whatever and empties your cupboard…
And she will never leave until her legs are at the staggering stage and the booze has all but disappeared.
It took lockdown before I saw the other Mavis, trying to work out zoom really sobered her up.
Now we zoom and the funny thing is one word of Trump and my computer magically freezes.
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