“Two hundred and forty nine thousand nine hundred and ninety eight, two hundred and forty nine thousand nine hundred and ninety nine, two hundred and fifty thousand! I’ve got exactly a quarter of a million pubes.” muttered Lindsay Lohan, rifling through her pants as if seeking a Phillips head screwdriver in a draw of odds and sods.
“You’re supposed to be looking at that script.” I said, removing an ember from the fire and singeing the life out of an incautious bee that had alighted on my nose. The husk of its body tumbled away into the sand, and I imagined its bee voice cursing me as it fell.
“It’s not a script. It’s a letter from a Saudi sheik who wants to buy me.” she said, refusing the hand sanitiser as quickly as I proffered it.
“Are you considering it?” I ventured.
She paused to scratch her gut, stifling a yawn with her free hand and using one foot to adjust the volume of the radio that sat on a nearby rock. The drone of the shipping forecast subsided.
I could see our unborn child strain the guy rope of her diaphragm and I tried to imagine its face. Perhaps it would be a Gus. Or a Tammy. Or a Stewbert.
“Not seriously. We’ve got the baby. And since we both gave up our fortunes to live on this man made beach near Norwich, I’ve not been left wanting.” she said, basting a sausage in petrol and lobbing it into the flames where, for a fraction of a second, it was perfectly cooked. Ash drifted into the umber Norfolk sky.
Not many people believed that it had been an immaculate conception. But Lindsay insisted that Jesus had come to her in a dream, waved his famous wand and told her that she was with child. I argued that all the coked up sex we’d been having might have been the real culprit, but she was still convinced of the Jewish wizard version of events.
In any event, I’m prepared to support our little family and live in an igloo made of sand for as long as it takes. As my first wife used to say, “Norfolk? Where the fuck is Norfolk?”
By Danny Glover