Read The Meltdown of a Banker's Wife for Free Online

several others came forward to agree.
    â€˜I’ll pack your bag for you, love,’ said an assistant, patting Mel on the arm. ‘Then you can come and rest for a bit. OK?’
    Mel was so grateful. At that moment, she realised the worldwasn’t entirely created out of a huge pile of poo. There were actually decent people in it. It was all she needed to get her through this horrendous ordeal.
    â€˜Thanks so much,’ she breathed.
    â€˜Hope to see you soon in work!’ winked Brian as he placed the insistent Mavis in the back of the ambulance with her friend.

11
    They arrived home and Mel unpacked the shopping, looking at the eclectic mix of ready meals, bits of fish, frozen prawns, gin, tonic, milk and bread that she seemed to have taken with her from the supermarket ordeal. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do with any of it. Her brain was in complete meltdown, so she put everything in the fridge and poured them all some squash.
    â€˜Let’s sit in the garden,’ she suggested. It was one-thirty but everything would have to wait.
    â€˜Yay!’ agreed the children and as good as gold, they went out into the garden and sat on their swings, while Mel sat at the bottom of the slide.
    It was so hot that she couldn’t stay outside for long and she brought the children in to cover them liberally with sunscreen. She found some sunhats and they went out again to play, with Mel safe in the knowledge that she had followed all the care in the sun instructions that any good mother should. It was now two o’clock. She would have to leave for the City at four-thirty. Right – what was she going to make for this soirée? She looked at the shopping in the fridge. So she had, let’s see … packs of garlic prawns; extra prawns; garlic bulbs; some broccoli; carrots; onions; gin; tonic and ice cream. What on earth was she going to make with that lot? She’d gone out with the watch words ‘French’ and ‘prawns’ in mind, hoping to come up with some inspiration during the shopping trip, but the trip had been so traumatic that she had only remembered the basic essence of the thing. Onions and garlic equalled French and she had prawns.Brilliant. There was no way she was going to any shop again today. She had plenty of wine and bottles of beer but she had to come up with something decent for a meal for Brian’s boss, surely. It was then that she noticed the disaster area which pre cake-incineration night was known as the kitchen. There was still a sooty pall about the place and the oven was rank and smoky-black when she opened it. That was it. Either she couldn’t pick the blokes up from work or she couldn’t tidy up and cook. Something had to give. She phoned Alan, who seemed rather miffed that she was giving him such an ultimatum. She reminded him that it would have been a lot easier for all concerned if he hadn’t launched this plan on her last minute. What was she … a bloody miracle worker? Alan preferred that she picked them up because he couldn’t face travelling on public transport in this weather. So that was that. She was all out of inspiration and, at most, could only make a cosmetic attempt at cleaning the kitchen. She would have to light the house in a haze of candles; spray the entire smelly area with air freshener; get takeaways and try to ensure that the boss was guided away from the kitchen. She toyed with the idea of roping off the area à la ‘stately home open to the public’, but there was no time and it would only look suspicious. She looked through the Yellow Pages and found a French restaurant which might be able to help her out. So she would pop around there and order something from the menu, then come home and try to tidy the kitchen; make herself presentable; and go to pick up the men. Simple! Except that each of these jobs, especially the one involving making herself presentable, would take longer than