My entire family is creepy and British
Hello everybody, my name is Janey. I'm a 100% normal, white, American woman. Pretty neat, huh? Not creepy at all you're thinking to yourself. Well, sure, but somehow, inexplicably, I have become embroiled in a creepy life with an English man on a dank little island far from home. Specifically, England.
I still remember the day I met him. He was like the missing third option from Bridget Jones, as if Hugh Grant and Mr Darcy had been spliced together in a horrifically forced endeavour of faux intellectualism and charm.
"You are an American and hence, an idiot." He said to me on our first meeting, and the way he said it made me instantly fall madly in love.
I thought I was living in a fairy tale. I would eventually bring David back to California and people would love his peculiar ways and his sarcastic wit. However, once we were married and I was pregnant, David revealed to me that he had no intention of ever leaving the cold damp place he called home.
"I can't leave my sick mother, Janey. I love my mother in every literal sense of the word. More than I could ever hope to love you, my wife. An American." Said David.
"Well, we could take your mother with us, David. She might enjoy the change in scenery?"
David rose silently from his armchair, made a cup of tea, waited for it to cool somewhat, took a mouthful, and spat it in my face.
"Take my British mother to California? To Hollywood? Are you fucking insane?"
He slapped a buttered crumpet in my face.
It was hard to ignore his charm, and so I agreed to remain with him beneath his ever present blanket of clouds.
After several months our child was born, a sickly baby girl with a humped back and translucent skin. David insisted we name her Barbara after all the women in his life.
"I respect your wishes David, but, what will we call her for short? I can't imagine referring to an 8 year old girl as Barbara. It would be a bit ludicrous."
David paused. I had offended him. He began to silently draw on his hand with a biro he always kept on his person. Eventually he put the pen down, showed me his palm, which now had a reasonably life-like image of the Queen of England drawn on it, and proceeded to slap me hard on the forehead. He pushed his hand firmly on to my head, then peeled it away. He left the room, returned with a small mirror and showed me my reflection. I could now clearly see the Queen of England's life-like face staring back at me from my forehead.
"That is the Queen." He said. "And the child's name is Barbara."
Now, you're probably thinking, hey, maybe things improved when the daughter came along? Perhaps Janey and Barbara had each other for support? Well, you'd be wrong. Despite the red, white and blue blood running through my veins, somehow David, and the rickety old society he kept bolted together around him, managed to make my daughter into just another little Britain.
"Dearest mother. Would you like some tea and biscuits?" Said Barbara, now five years old, as she suddenly appeared behind me.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Babbz! You have to give me some kind of warning when you're right behind me like that."
"I am sorry, mother. If it pleaseth you I can announce myself upon entry into each and every room from henceforth."
"You don't need to pleaseth me, Babbz. Just go play on an iPad or something. Spend some time on YouTube. Do some normal kid things."
"Oh, but mother, I have hopscotch and Morris dancing practice in not half an hour. If perhaps you are not quite famished now, I shall simply spend some time occupying myself in the drawing room."
"Yes, please, Babbz. Mommy just needs some alone time right now... and for the next thirty years."
The creepy little shit left and I pulled my bottle of Budweiser back out from behind the bed. Alcohol made the living hell I had created for myself somewhat easier, but it could never fully remove all the double decker busses that roamed the streets or deaden the sound of endless public service broadcasting.
Credited to koalazeus
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