My Inner Comedienne’s Death by Budget


I find my Inner Comedienne laid out in mortuary fashion atop my toothbrush, holding a sad plastic lily in her hands. Each of her closed eyelids is painted with a comedic “x”, by which I deduce she is either sleeping or dead.

It’s late, and, to be quite honest, I haven’t seen her for so long I have all but forgotten she exists. She has, in fact, become so very tiny I have just narrowly avoided smothering her with a glob of Sensodyne.

“Oy!” she squeaks, bolting upright and tossing aside her death lily. “Watch what you’re doing!” She is clearly unhappy about her dead clown routine reaching its premature, if minty, end.

I immediately drop the Sensodyne and lift my toothbrush to get a better look at my IC. She is not quite an inch tall at this point, and clad in a ragged burial suit. Her rainbow wig, once so bright and cheerful, appears to have weathered a tropical storm of Biblical proportion. It has been reduced to a greyish matt of polyester strands swept back from her chalk-white face. Hers is not, I must admit, a happy face.

“Oh,” I say, “it’s you. You’re still alive, then?”

“Barely!” She hisses, hoisting herself off the bristles and on to the handle of my brush in order to deliver a smart kick to the tip of my thumb. It doesn’t hurt. I am, however, forced to admit that my Lilliputian IC, faded, windswept and shrunk to the size of a 10p coin, still shows remarkable pluck.

“Look,” I say, “I KNOW you’ve been neglected in these past weeks –”

“Weeks? WEEKS?” My IC balances on the handle of the toothbrush, arms akimbo. “Try months! Nearly a YEAR! I’ve all but disappeared!”

I feel yet another pang of guilt for my neglected blog, poor Virgil whose story has STILL not concluded on account of my pitiful lack of initiative, not to mention Avery and the REAL owner of Baby, Mick and Kayla and all the other residents of Amos who need their stories told…

“You’re right,” I admit, nodding. “Mea culpa.”

My Inner Comedienne rolls her eyes in typically dramatic fashion. “Now, don’t go talking all foreign to ME! I’ve had about enough of that stupid Italian language course! It’s all I hear these days — morning, noon and night!”

Mea culpa, for the record, is Latin, not Italian. Seeing that she is in a bit of a state, I decide it is best not to correct her on this point. “But my Italian is coming along well,” I say.

She throws up her hands in disgust. “So you pick a language that is spoken in precisely ONE country of the world… you and your bone-headed ideas…”

My IC is right. I might just as well be learning Esperanto.  Or Icelandic.

“…between rabbits and chickens, that idiot dog who is the canine equivalent of Houdini and who has broken a window and reduced the hallway door to sawdust…”

I continue nodding, knowing there is nothing I can do or say to refute her. My life is a mess. A mess filled with animals, rain, mud and poop. I’ve got too few hours in my days… I am plagued by menopause and age, broken fingers, toes and failing knees.

As it happens, none of these things are particularly funny.

In the midst of all this, HH has convinced me that saving money is sexy. At least, that’s what he SAID, and after receiving my first rounds of verbal applause for pinching pennies into copper wire, I was very nearly convinced he was right.

He was not.

On the one hand, all credit cards are balance-free.

On the other hand, HH and I have become tighter than an otter’s pocket.  I’ve come to the unpleasant conclusion that Jack is, indeed, a very dull boy!  All this work and no play means that my legs need waxing, my eyebrows are trying to meet up with my hairline, I possess twenty broken and polish-free nails, and my expanding waistline (on account of groceries being the only thing I’m allowed to indulge in without question) has recently applied for its own postcode.

“You’re right,” I say. “I’ve not been much fun lately–”

'I think you could be onto something.'

‘I think you could be onto something.’

“You got that right, sister!” She snorts, and carries on ranting. I want to smile because she sounds like a munchkin on helium, but she’s in such a fine fettle I haven’t the nerve.

Still, as my Inner Comedienne paces to and fro along my toothbrush, I see her colour is returning. Just a flash of pink in her hair, the sparkle of a gold lamé star on her burial suit, the faint glint of reflection in the toes of her oversized candy-apple red shoes…

Curse HH and his evil accounting degree — I feel a shopping trip in my future! Or, at the very least, a little topiary work. Saving money may not be sexy, but then again, neither are hairy legs…

Mother Hen

  • Feature Photo: Shutterstock
  • Cartoon:

© motherhendiaries 2016, all rights reserved.

8 replies »

  1. Welcome home my (hairy) friend! While I am clean shaven, my new job has my energy levels at an all time low by day’s end and with accursed Daylight Savings Time in effect, it is too dark for my treasure ling evening walks to saok up the remaining rays of the sun. We need to get cracking and bring back our full fun fantastic selves. Good to see you! Let that IC have her walk in the spotlight. Toss her a sixpence or two.


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