Ms Joyce Freeman was a morose, grey-haired lady, whose wiry body was draped in straggly black wool. She had the kind of face that even a rescue dog couldn’t love.
When Adam was ushered in silence towards a plastic black chair, he quickly felt optimistic. There was already a sense that his marriage was being administered the Last Rites.
As the Counsellor formally introduced herself, Adam’s thoughts were swept back to his wedding day. He remembered his lavish grey suit, his foster mother’s fruit-themed bonnet and even a small, toffee-like feeling of optimism. He also recalled the grotesque and abundant bridesmaids, Mavis and Anita, and the bride’s audacious vintage dress, or ‘post-Viking’ as Adam’s sister had cheekily described it.
Now, nineteen excruciating years later, his wife was sitting next to him wearing a mushy pea coloured smock, as she impatiently waited for their loving union to be strangled. It was as clinical as drowning kittens in a bucket.
“My marriage is doomed!” Mandy wailed like a plague-infested opera heroine. “My wretched husband likes to wear ladies’ earrings and my bras!”
Adam grimaced. “No, that’s not entirely true. I only tampered with your undergarments to smother them in itching powder.”
“I see.” Ms Freeman peered at him over her leopard print spectacle frames. “So you use the itching powder to try and repel your shameful cross-dressing urges?”
Adam was about to object, when suddenly his brain was bombarded by memories of his courageous quests to obtain his freedom - Braveheart, the Pendle Witches, Britney Spears, and the sweaty torture of his lycra shorts.
Taking a deep breath, his head slowly began to nod . . . Coming in the future: All about Eva'