I have two cuts on my top lip. Literally, on my top lip, just above my canines, like vampire teeth in reverse. To complete the Twilight look, they keep opening up. I know I should keep my top lip still until they heal. But have you ever tried saying, ‘Beatrice, remove your teeth from Toby’s arm,’ without moving your top lip? Or, ‘Yes, it would be a pleasure to bake a cake for the PTA sale,’ or, ‘Of course you like vegetables,’ or, ‘When was the last time you saw it?’ or indeed any of the eight phrases that make up the bulk of my social interaction. (For the record, the others are: ‘We’re not getting a dog,’ ‘What‘s the magic word?’ ‘Is this a marketing call?’ ‘and ‘Of course I don’t mind.’)
A lip wound that bleeds whenever you speak has its advantages, of course. Constance Fish, Chair of the PTA and Minder of All Business, School and Otherwise, couldn’t wait to get away from me this morning. Mrs Leyton, Beatrice’s nursery teacher, took one look and clearly decided that I didn’t need to be burdened with whatever variant of the ‘Beatrice is a dear, dear girl but she really oughtn’t to bite the other children’ lecture I’d been due to receive. Perhaps she thought Beatrice had finally got round to biting me.
But the truth is more prosaic. I’d just got the children to bed last night. Stephen was late and I needed a glass of wine. I wrenched the cork out of the bottle, leaving the jagged edges of the foil. And then, dear readers, inspired by generations of gin-swilling mothers, I lifted the bottle straight to my mouth. Ouch, I thought, as Stephen walked through the door.
‘I’ll have some of that,’ he said cheerfully.
‘What, the wine or my life blood?’ I asked, wiping the latter from the floor.
‘The wine,’ he said, looking vaguely puzzled. Of course he wanted the wine. He’s got my life blood already.
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