“We are going to a game farm for two weeks. I know you heard exactly what I said. This is just more of your divaliscious antics,” I said indignantly.
“I am just not cut out for the farming life. What do you think I will do there? I am a city girl, used to the comforts of modern living. What the hell were you thinking?” She paced furiously, wearing a hole in the carpet. I could see tiny wisps of smoke coming from her Christian Louboutins.
“It’s an adventure, a time to create, away from the hustle and bustle. I could write the next Man Booker prize winning novel.”
“In your dreams, dear. Your writing will be interspersed with cows lowing, zebras yipping and the feathery flamboyance of ostriches. Last time I checked, that was not something the average reader would be interested in. Do you see this awesomeness going to waste amidst the grassy slopes and mountains of the Free State?” She was gesturing at her voluptuousness of which I had had more than an eyeful. I wondered how she could not see what we all so clearly saw when she looked in the mirror. Perhaps she had one of those magical mirrors which proclaimed her the most beautiful in the land. Sadly, I do not have the confidence our delectable muse has.
“You should not go near a game farm, but rather straight to the bloody funny farm. Strait jackets are in your future, I predict,” she sneered.
“IT WILL BE FUN!” I insisted.
“We’ll see about that, won’t we?” Her perfectly manicured eyebrows lifted to incredible heights.
“We’ll definitely see,” I said, not about to be undone.