I ventured into Surrey recently. A quick skip over the Hampshire border and there I was, in the stockbroker belt, with the rolling verdant hills, expensive golf clubs and houses with silly names.
Venture off the Hogg’s Back near Guildford and you’ll find a species that will hopefully become extinct in a generation or two, the parasite wife. (You may also encounter some daylight doggers, such as the almost naked man wearing only a yellow construction helmet, socks and work boots as reported in a local paper, but that’s another story).
In search of a Buck
Like the women in Jane Austen novels, she will have spent her early years tracking down and securing a husband, (usually meeting him in the workplace, where she can guage his promotion potential and eventual net worth) then marriage, popping out at least two children and then refusing to work another day in her life.
They can be found in pockets all over the country, in the gentrified suburbs of cities and commuter towns, within reach of their beleaguered husband’s workplaces and their children’s public schools.
She’s not the 1950’s housewife type. She isn’t keeping the home fires burning, or even taking care of the children, she hires help for that. Instead she devotes her time to keeping her husband continually tethered to his job in order to provide for her ‘needs’.
Poodle Parlours, Primping and Public Schools
Her days are spent in futile and earnest consumption. She can be found in market towns around the country having chunky highlights striped into her continually cut hair, or having her face stripped of skin and paralysed with Botox at any number of poodle parlour like beauty salons.
When she’s not hanging out at the country club or spa, she can be found in cafes nuzzling a skimmed milk latte, with at least one other similar companion.
Another familiar hunting ground is the department or lifestyle store, ideally one that sells reconditioned old furniture in a peculiar shade of venereal green from the outer reaches of a Farrow and Ball paint chart.
These stores specialise in expensive fripperies like hand painted signs with the legends “Please remove your Jimmy Choo’s” or tea trays imprinted with “Fifty Shades of Earl Grey” and love hearts in all shapes and sizes, in gingham, in faux twig, in fairy lights. I can’t help thinking these are symbolic of the love lacking in her marriage of convenience.
Heart shaped objects reflecting love long gone
I watched some of them today, in such a lifestyle store, claiming to be an antiques centre, offering faux and reproduction everything, from fake galvanised buckets with chi chi French labels, fake wine crates, neatly (and badly) distressed cabinets and feathered lampshades amongst other tat.
They invariably wear Gilets at this time of year. That useless garment that is both impractical and unflattering and should be used only when riding a horse or mucking out a stable. These are teamed with pastel coloured knitwear, elaborate frayed scarves, the ubiquitous Ugg boots and Boden corduroy skirts or eye wateringly expensive jeans, topped off with a handbag costing several thousand pounds and shaped like an old pillowcase with straps.
Sometimes they have their emasculated man in tow. There is something so castrating in forcing a reluctant male, chained onto the hamster wheel of commerce, ‘to keep up appearances’ to examine union jack scatter cushions, I can hardly bear to watch.
Go forth and multiply – the maintenance money
The younger and more militant of the females may even have a toddler or two with her, which is entirely unwise in an old barn with rickety stairs, stuffed to the rafters with breakables, but are left to run riot as a gesture of defiance. “I like Citronella to be able to express her bubbly personality”
These children are never admonished when they scream, break things or career into other shoppers. I must admit, I have perfected the knack of “accidentally” delivering a swift kick to the ankles of said brats as I pass, which heightens the volume of the screaming, but is otherwise undetectable and immensely satisfying.
I tried smiling at a PW as an experiment and got the frozen glare back. This was as expected, because unless you are familiar from the PTA or other sanctioned group, you are Other, a lone wolverine out there on the prairie, that is likely to make a move on her man or territory.
It doesn’t help if you are dressed differently for then you are automatically spotted as a wrong ‘un and frostily given a sweeping look that is both judging and dismissive. You, as a woman, have not succeeded in finding an appropriate host of your own and she’ll be damned if you’re coming anywhere near hers.
Welcome to the Cunt Cafe
Their conversation revolves around a maximum of five topics, purchases/expenditure, the genius and precociousness of their offspring, the short-comings of husbands, gossip about celebrities and other women in their circle and their own hobby business ambitions (cup cakes, ‘art’ or handmade greeting cards).
As I watch them from a safe distance in the café, aptly named ‘Figs’ (Figue is Italian slang for female genatalia, so I have rechristened the establishment the cunt cafe), I wonder how I would have survived in such a culture and know that I couldn’t have, not without an expensive drug/alcohol/toy boy habit. Possibly all three.
They are both shallow and vicious at once. They talk about their husbands disparagingly or not at all, they use sex as a bargaining tool, children as collateral against an inevitable divorce settlement. Meanwhile, they fill their homes with identical, tasteless products and tether their husbands like bulls in a field, a ring through his nose, a vampire on his back, the instruments to geld him in the potting shed.
It goes part way to explaining why their husbands are often so ghastly to work with. They have metaphorically had their bollocks locked in such a tight vice, no wonder they get so competitive, obsessed with petty power, impotent bullying and body language that consists of frantic steepling, crotch adjusting, or the old hands behind the head gesture of superiority.
This tribe is to blame for many of this country’s ills. It is they who vote Conservative or Lib Dem. It is they that have systematically ruined villages by buying up all available property or colonised the vile new 6 bed ‘executive homes’, taking over a beauty spot near you as we speak. They are responsible for the ‘shop of nonsense’ popping up in every commuter village. Hubby probably works in The City too, so we know what he and his chums are responsible for.
A Betrayal to their Sex
The PW sets back feminism by several decades. They play at work, they play at opening their own cupcake/Pilates/bunting making businesses. They sink their teeth into men and bleed them for all of the years their offspring attend public school.
It is a tragic existence, counting down the years to the husband’s inevitable infidelity and The Divorce. The betrayal of the male is not through some biological imperative to spread his seed, but rather a Custer like Last Stand when the realisation of his victimhood becomes apparent. Like an ageing popstar he might run off with the office vamp, the sprightly Eastern European nanny, or worse, one of the other, younger, PW’s.
By trading Wife #1 for a younger model he believes, for a moment, he has re-established his crippled man-hood, only to discover he has just traded it for a younger, cleverer, more bloody minded parasite that will outlive him and retain the sorry 50% of his assets left after divorcing Wife#1.
Man up Men of Britain!
Man up, middle class men of Britain, take a look at how far into the Venus Fly-trap you are slipping. And as for the Parasite Wives, I say get a life and an income of your own. Shame on you all and your vile offspring being coached to do exactly the same. Your spawn contain the seeds of destruction for this generation and the next. A parasitical virus of greedy entitlement and a life of no purpose. And you care not a jot for anyone else. That’s the worst of it all.