I THOUGHT it would be easy. Marry rich bloated pig man, have quiet life as scowling clothes hanger, wait to outlive him, then have a lovely time as wizened twiglet in killer heels.
Instead he became leader of the free world, which means everyone on earth knows I have sex with imbecilic squint-eyed pumpkin. And to make it worse, he now seems to be impervious to illness. Even the Covid found him repulsive.
Financially it’s embarrassing. He pays less tax than the plumber husbands of my former friends back in Slovenia, so they are phoning up asking if I need them to post me some five Euro notes in an envelope. I tell them we are fine, we have gold toilet, Donald just selfish terrible human.
Everyone’s husband occasionally says something foolish at parties but this ‘my daughter has the best body’: is this an American thing? I keep my mouth smiling but my eyes say, ‘why did I get involved with this crazy family and why does horrid Ivanka get to go on Air Force One more than me?’.
I suppose it’s good he has his Twitter to play with, because it gives me time to work out how many of these Egyptian cotton sheets it would take for me to tie together and then abseil down the wall of the White House.
Why else do you think I got rid of those spiky rose bushes? I’m preparing an emergency exit in case he wins. Or loses. Whatever happens, I have had enough being First Lady. Gold toilet can go to hell.
