Prime Time by Jane Wenham-Jones Page B

table and picked them up.
    â€˜An amusing anecdote? The shepherd’s pie against the wall again?’
    â€˜It was lasagne, and no thank you. Something funny, it says.’ I looked at her desperately. ‘What’s happened to me that’s funny?’
    â€˜What about that time you fell asleep with your head in the trifle?’
    â€˜ No .’
    â€˜Or when you got locked in the loo at Janice’s hen night. Now that was funny–’
    â€˜Not for me it wasn’t – I was in there hours.’
    Charlotte waved a hand. ‘Just make something up.’
    â€˜Like what? And, oh God, look at this one: What is your greatest achievement?’
    Charlotte considered. ‘Forcing someone to marry you?’
    â€˜Getting rid of him again,’ I corrected sourly.
    â€˜Look,’ said Charlotte, putting a pot of parmesan cheese and a pile of cutlery in front of me, ‘you just need to make yourself sound as though you can say something witty when asked. If you sound like a dreary old divorced housewife they won’t touch you with a barge pole.’
    She sat down opposite me and picked up the pen. ‘I’ll fill it in – you lay the table and get the wine open. I always find a glass of vino inspiring in these situations.’ She looked at the paper in front of her. ‘Who would you love to have dinner with?’
    â€˜You. That gorgeous young bloke who’s on Strictly Come Dancing . I don’t know.’
    â€˜We’ll say Jeremy Paxman – they won’t be expecting that. Say you go weak at the knees when the Newsnight theme tune comes on.’
    â€˜But I don’t …’
    â€˜What would you spend a million pounds on?
    â€˜Um, er, I’m not sure. Maybe a bigger house. Stanley’s bedroom is a bit small …’
    Charlotte wrote rapidly. ‘Diamonds, fast cars, loose men, and a boob job. What is your favourite party trick?’
    â€˜You can’t talk about boobs and I haven’t got one.’
    She thought for a moment and then bent over the paper once more. ‘Playing – the – spoons.’
    â€˜Charlotte!’ I squeaked. ‘Come on – I can’t do that.’
    Charlotte looked up and sighed. ‘It’s a joke ,’ she said wearily. ‘Remember jokes?’

Chapter Nine
    Nope. I can’t say I did. Some things just weren’t funny.
    The rubbish bag splitting as I dragged it from kitchen bin to front door wasn’t at all amusing, for example. Particularly when an empty tin of spaghetti hoops bounced out of it and left tomato sauce drips all along the hall carpet. The house being in a mess didn’t make me laugh either, nor did discovering Stanley’s school trousers were totally covered in mud while the other pair were still in the washing machine, or him wailing that he would get detention if he went to school without his tie again and he’d looked everywhere and still didn’t know where it was (it eventually turned up beneath Boris).
    I didn’t smile once when I dropped a cup of coffee and the china not only smashed into a thousand pieces on the quarry tiles but the dregs managed to splash all over the front of every kitchen cupboard and half way up the wall. (How does that happen ? How does a mere inch of liquid left in a cup manage to drench an entire room?)
    By the time Stanley and I had finished yelling at each other and I’d driven him to the bus stop as it was pouring with rain, and given in to his request to pull up round the corner so his friends wouldn’t see me in my dressing gown if the bus happened to arrive at the same time as we did, and had narrowly avoided driving into the back of a rubbish truck while I did it, I was at screaming point.
    I let myself back into the house and took seven Oil of Evening Primrose capsules – and some vitamin B which is supposed to be good for one’s nerves. Mine were shredded – it being