My brain goes strange places...
The Herald Sun ran an article today, of how Michelle Obama and Teresa Rein met for "warm and intimate chat".
Intimate, hunh? For some reason, after reading those words, I couldn't shake this image from my head;
The morning room is pleasantly lit - a lace cloth covers the occasional table, upon which sits an antique jug in blue and white china containing a posy of fresh flowers, and a silver tray on which a teapot, creamer and sugardish are arranged. The women sit facing each other in overstuffed wing chairs, upholstered in pistacio green, balancing teacups and saucers on their knees.
Teresa is speaking, a quavering note belying the affected good humour that colours her voice.
"Oh, my Kevin and his strippers! Why, sometimes I think the man has a real problem."
She laughs, nervously.
Michelle Obama run a hand agitatedly through her luxurious black mane, the other fiddling distractedly with the string of pearls about her slender neck, and bitterly intones, "You think you have problems? Every woman in the United States under the age of 80 fantasises about my husband. Imagine living with that, every day of your life. Imagine, every night, wondering if tonight's the night he'll succumb, and if it is, how will you know? I tried talking to Hillary, but all she could tell me was that it came with the territory; he'll stray, and I will grin and bear it, because that's what a first lady does."
Her lip quivers briefly, as she struggles to remain strong, and then her head falls into her hands, her delicate shoulders wracking with sobs. Teresa sets down her teacup, and leans forward to lay a gentle hand on Michelle's knee.
"There, now, dear," she says, her tone kind, "It can't be that bad. America's a very big place, home to an awful lot of women. They can't all have jungle fever."
Michelle simply nods, gulping in air in between sobs, and replies in a thin, cracking voice.
"Even the Republicans."
Intimate, hunh? For some reason, after reading those words, I couldn't shake this image from my head;
The morning room is pleasantly lit - a lace cloth covers the occasional table, upon which sits an antique jug in blue and white china containing a posy of fresh flowers, and a silver tray on which a teapot, creamer and sugardish are arranged. The women sit facing each other in overstuffed wing chairs, upholstered in pistacio green, balancing teacups and saucers on their knees.
Teresa is speaking, a quavering note belying the affected good humour that colours her voice.
"Oh, my Kevin and his strippers! Why, sometimes I think the man has a real problem."
She laughs, nervously.
Michelle Obama run a hand agitatedly through her luxurious black mane, the other fiddling distractedly with the string of pearls about her slender neck, and bitterly intones, "You think you have problems? Every woman in the United States under the age of 80 fantasises about my husband. Imagine living with that, every day of your life. Imagine, every night, wondering if tonight's the night he'll succumb, and if it is, how will you know? I tried talking to Hillary, but all she could tell me was that it came with the territory; he'll stray, and I will grin and bear it, because that's what a first lady does."
Her lip quivers briefly, as she struggles to remain strong, and then her head falls into her hands, her delicate shoulders wracking with sobs. Teresa sets down her teacup, and leans forward to lay a gentle hand on Michelle's knee.
"There, now, dear," she says, her tone kind, "It can't be that bad. America's a very big place, home to an awful lot of women. They can't all have jungle fever."
Michelle simply nods, gulping in air in between sobs, and replies in a thin, cracking voice.
"Even the Republicans."