So…it appears I’m in trouble again—no, not THAT type of trouble—and Mater told me I had to write to you ’cause you’d give me what for and explain “what you did wrong, young Prudence, and how to steer you down the correct path in future.”
So. Here I am. Knock one out of the park for dear old ma, okay? Make her happy, tell me off and let me get on with my life….
Dear Awesome Advice Central, this is Prudence’s mother writing now. Please ignore what she wrote above, she’s a naughty girl and in need of a serious talking-to. She’s not paying attention to her darling Mater and Pater any more, and we need her to understand what she did was wrong and unbecoming of a young woman of her status. And income level. (Plus, she’ll never get a husband if she keeps behaving this way.)
This, as you young people enjoy saying these days, is “the poop”:
Last week, darling Pru (her nickname; please don’t call her that, though, it’s for family use only) was returning from an exciting week’s journey abroad. As this was her first trip without Mater and Pater accompanying, we went to great pains to make sure she was well taken care of en route. Hotels were booked. Officials bribed. Clothing bought, pre-laundered to remove the common “shop smell.” Sherpas sorted. Restaurants and menus chosen. We left no stone unturned in ensuring she had a delightful holiday.
We were gasping in anticipation on the day she arrived home. While waiting at home for her to walk through our front door, bags bursting with curios and duty-free pipe tobacco, it occurred to me that there was one detail we hadn’t considered when we bade her farewell from these shores: poor dear had no way of getting home from the airport.
Battle stations, tally ho!
We scrambled quickly, reckoning we had but 15 minutes to make our way from home to airport arrivals hall. Time was of the essence and we were quick about it. Pater fired up the helicopter and away we went. Sadly, we had a messy moment with a Canada Goose; the engine failed and we bailed out, only missing death by the smallest of margins.
Avoiding the burning wreckage on our neighbour’s lawn, we took temporary ownership of their Rolls Royce and drove hellbent for leather to the airport, thoughts of a lost and crying Prudee-Pip (another nickname! don’t use it) spurring us on ever forward, but alas, no sign of Pru-Pru (also a nickname; as before, do not use, it’s our favourite of 7 specific names for our darling girl) at the airport…..
Oh, for gawd’s sake. Mater is taking way too long. Man oh man, she can drone on and on, can’t she? Here’s what happened, the long and short of it, the thick and—oh, crap, now I’m doing it too.
Okay: so, I get off the plane (no, I do NOT de-plane. That sounds like something that guy used to say to Mr. Rourk on Fantasy Island: “look boss, de plane, de plane!” ) ( I disembark, as civilised people do). Walk through Customs and Immigration, make a scathing comment about how the lines are too long and how I should be given preferential treatment because…well, just because. Get my bags.
Walk into the arrivals hall and I see a chauffeur holding a sign for a Pamela Prenderfithing-Gard. Not my name, but hey, close enough, right? So I saunter up and tell the guy, “Hey, I’m Pammy, you’re my ride. Home, James, and don’t spare the horses!!” And away we went.
I told him I had a new address and to take me to Mater and Pater’s residence instead of Pamela Whats-her-fish’s. He didn’t seem to mind, so that’s what we did.
Nice limo, btw, with pah-lenty of whisky in the back. Tasted so good, I had James take me round the block a few times before letting me off. And once we were in the driveway, I invited him into the back seat to sample the, heh heh, wares as well. He wasted no time, and a good time was had.
So! Here I am, I had a good holiday, probably won’t go away again though—foreigners are just so, well, foreign, aren’t they? yuck—and now you’re supposed to tell me how evil I am for, I don’t know, ruining the world? M and P need to relax their collective sphincter muscles and chillax. They could learn a lot from me if they tried.
Anyway, have at it. Enjoy yourselves. Knock yourselves out. I’ll be sitting here playing Candy Crush so probably won’t be too interested in your advice, just warning you.
We must thank you for giving us the opportunity to open one of our missives “Dear Prudence.”
As for the rest…well, you seem to have matters well in hand, so to speak. We cannot think what we might say that could punish you more than you’re already suffering from your execrable genetic inheritance, not to mention your most interesting mother. We can only surmise that your father, so far the blessedly silent partner in this saga, is equally inbred.
So Candy Crush away, by all means. And pass the scotch, would you? There’s a pet.
Awesome Advice Central