The baby whisperer.
A new incubus has strode cock sure into the cross hairs of this fatcat! Vive le fury, vive le howling winds of derision. Bestir my loins of contempt! Hullo there contempt, good to see you back actually, ah you brought disdain with you. I was worried that you had left us for good.
Wot folly wot?
Hung over and bunged with cold I was morosely perusing the Sunday papers, snuffling and minding my own business when I read something so outrageous that my fever spiked and I almost scalded myself with hot Mexican chicken soup.
'Sud of a bidge!' I remarked loud enough to make Puddy open her eyes for a nano second.
The paramour, huffled low in his chair, awaiting the Arsenal match to kick off, glanced over. 'What?
I carried on reading, disbelieving, rigid with dismay and outrage.
'Look at this! I don't- I mean it- that's...'
But apoplexy had rendered me uncharacteristically- and temporarily- speechless. Overcome I could only manage to wearily/feebly/weebily shake The Culture section of The Times at him.
'What is it?' He said, taking the magazine from me with some alarm.
I jabbed at Liam Fay's television review.
'Look, it's unspeakable.'
The paramour read, '...Derek Ogilvie is a Scottish psychic who claims to be able to communicate telepathically with infants...'
The paramour glanced up, but by then I had collapsed into a shivering near faint.
Ladies and gentleman and Maroon! There is such a thing as a baby whisperer.
'... Unlike Doctor Dolittle the fictional character-'
'Oh yeb,' I sneered, 'becaube old Derek is clearly the real deal!'
'-who could speak to animal in their own mewling languages, Ogilvie does not have to decipher the ba-ba babble of advanced baby talk-'
'Jebus kill me now.' I blew my nose.
'-on the contrary, he says, he receives messages from the minds of babies in impeccable grown-up English.'
'How very convenient! Why not in Urdu, or Italian!' I shrieked getting up and stumbling half blind about the room, my streaming eyes frantically seeking out something to put me out of my misery.
The paramour read on silently, before tossing the Culture aside. 'Why do you read such tripe? More importantly why do you get so worked up about it?'
'Mountebanks, charlatans!' I dry swallowed two tablets that may or may not have been for the cats. 'Quacks! Fuckwittery! And they have him on television...I'm going to have to watch the Afternoon Show now.'
'To see this abomination for myself! WOOSH! Did you read what he told one mother, separation anxiety! Fuck me! That's what one year olds worry about, not nabby rash or toobbache! But if mobby goebs shopping or not!'
'Honey, you're listing to one side.'
'I can't take it, the Reiki, the cranial manipulations, surgery without opening the skin! Don't you see, it's a conspiracy to-whoosh- to- hack hack woosh...To drive people like me insane! Faith healers! Spiritual mumbo jumbo! Ke phooey! WOOSH!'
'I think you should lie down. Do you want me to make you a Beechams hot lemon?'
'Yeb pleabe.' I said forlornly.
So I went to bed, clutching my copy of The God Delusion to my chest, with the bigger of the cats tucked under my other arm.
Dawkins is messing with my ill head and I feel sort of mildly confused about my previously held view that God might exist and if he does he surely wouldn't approve of my dissin' him or reading Dawkins. I wish Dawkins would turn his high powered beams on the likes of this Ogilvie fucker and all those 'faith healers.'
When I am queen I will have Ogilvie horse whipped and then salted. I will whisper to him while he's being salted. I will whisper, 'sore I'll bet, isn't it?'
Until then I suppose I will keep the deeper well of scorn and bile for this kind of creep much tended. This vile creature I never knew existed, a man who would make a hungover cold sufferer lose her will to live on a cold Sunday afternoon.
Baby whisperer, ugh. A pox be upon him. Can there be any life form lower?
Baby whispering! I'm against it!