Friday, January 22, 2010

YOU CANT CHOOSE YOUR FAMILY, BUT YOU CAN CHOOSE YOUR SUPERMARKET.

As a young girl on our yearly trip over the river to Clearys , I remember meeting a poverty-stricken old man who coughed phlegm and bits all over me. Even though I was just a child, I vowed to do whatever I could to cure that man of his illness, and then destroy him. I innocently thought that if I could cure the world of poverty then I could cure the world from the scourge of scummy commoners. Now I'm older I've realised that you don't have to be poverty stricken to have a pretty scabby house and behave like a dustbin dweller. In fact some people are just disgusting no matter how much income they have. And I know what your thinking "they must be 'new money' , so did I, initially. Until my cousin Ciara came to visit this week.



She's from a nice wealthy Catholic family and was brought up relatively similar to me, although I was raised in a more protestant household. As my mother married into the Church of Ireland "community" on her second time round. I myself am a Catholic and while I’m not thrilled about my stepfathers protestant lineage, I make the sacrifice because that’s what being a Catholic is all about. I don’t go to church every week, but that’s because God understands how pure I am and doesn’t need the Sunday morning hard graft that He must demand of others. So there.



Well my cousin, if I can even call her that anymore, decided to come and stay with me for a few days after returning from some hippy dippy world trippy! yuck. Naturally being the kind hearted welcoming hostess I am , she was received by me with open arms. Literally and figuratively. Which was big of me as she hadn't washed since she landed and was beginning to develop a crusty layer of filth on her. I showed her to the guest room where I had placed fresh roses by her bed. Upon seeing them she got all teary eyed and blubed about how great it was it home with her family etc. That's when I had to interrupt her. "This isn't your home Ciara, you're here for a visit", I chirped cheerfully at her."Oh and remember I always have MY HOME immaculate, so don't go worrying that I've made a fuss". I figured she'd pick up on my thinly veiled hint that this wasn't going to be some couch surfing holiday and she couldn't behave like a disgusting drug smoking layabout under my roof. I was mistaken, Ciara sadly was not too quick on the uptake.



For one thing her appearance didn't change too dramatically for the rest of the time she spent at chez Jezebels and although I heard the shower running I was never wholly convinced of her having one. She constantly looked unkempt and I'm telling you I don't think I saw a scrape of make up on her face once.It's a shame she doesn't share the flawless skin that I do. Now that I'm older and wiser I've taken into account the jealousy she must feel towards to me and I don't blame Ciara. I pity her. Staying in my beautiful home and seeing what a success I've made of myself must not have been easy for her. But that doesn't give her the excuse to behave and look like a homeless.

The final straw was when I returned home the other evening to find her faffing about in my kitchen ,attempting to cook me dinner. She said she'd been shopping in this new supermarket she'd heard about and got some great deals. Great deals? my stomach churned.I cant stand poor quality food. I thought this was common knowledge. Did she honestly think I'd rejoice that she'd bought some muck at Lidl. Yes Lidl. If I was a super market I'd be Marks&Spencers,in fact I'd be a upmarket delicatessen, specialising in gourmet world foods. So you can imagine my horror when I saw the Lidl bag on my marble counter.

Ciara had another thing coming if she thought I was sitting down to eat her nauseating nosh. I hate to be pernickety. But really, she had some nerve. She had prepared some sort of lunch meat, possibly spam or something vile like that. My kitchen stank, her hands probably weren't even washed, I began retching, it was all too much. "Spam?" I yelled. "I mean come on Ciara, we're not living in war torn times"? I tutted and gave up trying to reason with her. "Just get the hell away from me," I sighed and slammed the kitchen door shut.

Thankfully the next evening I returned home to find Ciara and her backpack had left. Sadly the Lidl purchases had not and still resided in my fridge. I flung them all in bin before heading to my bed. I was worn out after her stay. It hurt me to think that my own flesh and blood could be so classless and scummy. It saddened me. It saddened me deeply.

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