Once Frank’s body was firmly buried in the backyard under the rhododendron bush, with the busy-body next door suspecting nothing, Dorothy packed a selection of polyester mix outfits and boarded a ship for Europe without so much as a word to her daughter Gwen who was too busy anyway preparing what she thought was a stylish 14th birthday party for her adopted son Lance, a future homosexual and chartered accountant and Dorothy’s least favourite grandchild.
In all truth, she had never wanted a family, certainly not a mildly retarded daughter with an unhealthy obsession for home knits in a range of frankly ugly colours and textures of alpaca, and certainly not a lecherous husband with constant bladder infections, known in their local area for accidentally-on-purpose spraying female neighbours with the garden hose.
In all truth, she had never wanted a family, certainly not a mildly retarded daughter with an unhealthy obsession for home knits in a range of frankly ugly colours and textures of alpaca, and certainly not a lecherous husband with constant bladder infections, known in their local area for accidentally-on-purpose spraying female neighbours with the garden hose.
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