Things have not got better since A-Listgate. Victoria will not speak to me. She claims that if I had not driven A-Lister from our house then she would be a shoo-in to join the Gwyneth yoga class.
I tell her that I used to be the shallow one and I storm out but forget my wallet but have to go back and she won’t let me in. I spend the time trying to peel the stickers of the windscreen of the Quattroporte. It’s the usual nonsensical abuse. “Someone needs to stop men from procreating!!” reads one. “Coffee is a lie!!”screams another. I don’t even bother to ring the police. The first couple of times they came out and tried to look all concerned but I could see that they all thought it was a big laugh, some Yankee bigwig getting his comeuppance. Recently, they don’t even bother to come round. I have a plan.
I saw this TV news item about carjacking in South Africa. It is supposedly such a problem that entrepreneurial sorts have started to sell solutions. One is that you can turn your car into a live electrical circuit. Should anybody touch my car, they would get a powerful charge. This would not only frazzle lesbian stickerlady but deal with that Romanian traffic warden. Victoria says that I’ll be arrested for assault. This is where the US is better than the UK: it is self-defence, pure and simple. I shot a Chinaman in my Dad’s kitchen in Eureka once. I wasn’t charged; if you don’t want to get shot, don’t be a home invader. Same thing with my car. You’ve been warned. Cooper Out.