My Witch-In-Law
My Hubby’s Grandmother is certainly not my ideal vision of a French mamie, she doesn’t make jam, she smokes like a pompier and is the rudest, meanest French person I have ever had the bad fortune to come across in person on a regular basis.
One thing I will give her is she is sure damn consistent and she is an excellent dog trainer… read on.
A year of polite “bonjours” and me mostly ignoring her, has come and gone and there haven’t been too many upsets to speak of. We’d kind of settled down into a routine of just saying hi, and then having nothing to do with each other until now. But all that is to end, just like last year – June is obviously her witching month.
Every time I visit the Beaux-Parents, I absolutely dread her visit and was actually relieved at the beginning of the year when she had tripped up (over her broomstick?) and ended up in hospital for a few months. That is a really horrible thing to say and I do feel incredibly guilty for even thinking it, but you do not know how awful this woman is and how much upset she causes everywhere she goes. I will also add that she wasn’t ill at all, and was only kept in the hospital as she couldn’t care for herself at home due to broken bones – which mended incredibly quickly, hence confirming her status as a witch surely? She was up and walking around all over the place a week after going in!
Anyway, onto this weekend. As usual, she arrives and as is custom in this part of France, greets everyone with three pecks on the cheek. Standing next to my Sister in Law whilst she is greeted by the Witch, I wait expectantly my turn, breathing deeply, forcing myself to be calm. Then, in what seemed to be slow motion, the Witch turns to me, stares straight through me, her cold stone eyes hovering in my direction for a few seconds, and then continues turning and walks off. No “Bonjour” was muttered or sign of recognition given.
Rooted to the spot in total disbelief I just stood there gawping. I’d thought we’d got passed this and were at least on polite terms now.
Not so. And she’d obviously trained her dog. Still rooted to the spot, the dog charges at me and wees all over my feet, spraying my brand new shoes with almost fluorescent yellow dog pee (as if he’d been saving it up, especially for me!). I was speechless and then cried out “I don’t belieeevvve it!”, Victor Meldrew style.
The Witch then turned round, looked at me, rolled her eyes and walked off. Not a murmur of an apology. Thankfully Hubby came to the rescue and helped me wash my feet and shoes as I’d turned into helpless zombie like state, incapable to do anything so much I was seething with pure, white anger. The Witch had done it again.
