My family have accused me of farming them for content for this blog.

This is a blatant lie. I don’t farm them for content; they are just so friggin hilarious it would be a crime not to share.  

Example one. The Mister is listening to The Lord of the Rings books. (Not the BBC Radio adaptation, as we were both traumatised by Orcs during late-night physio sessions with our lad). So, the Mister is listening to the LotR and loving life. We chat over coffee and commiserate over the endless bloody singing. He’s on book two, or maybe three. I might have stopped listening. He’s been on a roll for about 10 minutes, and I’m waiting for him to run out of steam

          ‘The film plays fast and loose with the whole narrative,’ he rages. ‘There’s no need for it, the book is great as it is.’

I nod and mmm in all the right places, waiting for my chance to explain the intricacies of my latest side-quest. (pre-Roman Wales, thanks to a brilliant course by Adult Learning Wales.) I’m just cuing up a fascinating explanation of Romano-British resistance in the Severn Valley when the Mister interrupts my flow.

          ‘I just don’t know why they need to mess with the truth,’ he spits.

There’s a pause.

I look up, and he’s looking properly vexed.

‘You do know it’s just a story, don’t you?’ I ask cautiously. ‘Like, in a book,’

He huffs, hesitating, ‘Well!.. Well!..’ he splutters. ‘Well, I do now.’

His shoulders drop, his face softens, the fury that was there minutes ago melts away, and he looks how I imagine he did as a wee lad.

This is why I love him. I married a man who lives stories as if they are real…how could you not share that?

Example two is a darker tale full of betrayal and shame.

We have a group chat for the women of the family. Full of sisterhood, it’s all commiserations for the time of the month, congratulations for weights lifted, collective eye-rolls at the menfolk.

My daughters-in-law are both smart, funny women; my daughter is a hoot. Honestly, I think I should be given credit for not just screen-shotting our entire chat feed and posting that.  

It started with me making a passing comment about the books they were collectively reading. I referred to this as “fairy porn”. I admit this was a little reductive, and accepted that they were actually reading a completely different genre of filth.

There was much discussion on the horrors of reading filth written by your mother-in-law. I would like to point out that I have not written any filth; this is hypothetical filth we’re talking about, though I retain my right to write filth in the future, if I so choose. And anyway, I bet the writers of fairy-porn are somebody’s mother-in-law.

But accusations were thrown, and then I was accused of pushing sex toys onto my daughter-in-law.

I should rephrase that.

I had simply pointed out that there were things of an intimate nature in the Boots £10 Tuesday sale, and how much the world had changed. The way they were telling it, I was sending each of them a bloody gift bag.

There were memes of dogs gagging and several puke faces.

Well, challenge accepted, Sweeties. I just suggested that if I was going to be sending them little gifts, I’d be looking on Vinted.

After the ensuing explosions, I laughingly suggested I might write a blog about all of this. Because seriously, I couldn’t make this shit up. Pure. Comedy. Gold.

Accusations of farming were thrown, I might have mentioned cows…

But then, it got dark.

One of the sons was also reading the chat.

This.  

This.

This is not acceptable. What goes on in The Real Strictly chat stays in The Real Strictly chat.

(A word on the group name – it was created as a side chat to a Strictly group chat we had, but it was boring, and we were too mean to stay – sorry if you were left in that chat.)

Back to the outrage. Not only was one son reading over the shoulder and eye rolling at his mother, but it seems they all share my comedy genius, willy-nilly, with their menfolk.

Where is the solidarity? Where is the sisterhood? I don’t tell their dad about the not-fairy-porn they’re reading (ok, I may have done so now, but the point stands.)

They can forget about any bloody gifts from me; sharing a women’s sacred chat is tantamount to stamping on the sisterhood. Just wait until I next see special offers on stimulators or fancy moisturisers. I shall tell no one. And then where will they be?

And where will you be, dear reader?

Now that I’ll have nothing to share.

Tell me, what kind of books have you been reading?

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