… Ambassador, you are spoiling them.
Bet Martha will have major gut-gripe tonight. Pore Littuw Mite.
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She will sleep through, and Chris will panic.
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Bugrit.
But at least she drank the wine eventually. Good on her. I’d neck a bottle in preference to attending a Grundlet’s par’y too.
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She can’t have taken much time to neck the bottle and then pass out; Chris presumably went back there after work to collect Martha and she would have been sober then.
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Wouldn’t it be fun if Daddy Dearest mucked up mixing the formula and gave it kidney failure (or just a thundering dose of food poisoning)?
If he bolts to Peggy’s, though, I am relying on Hilda to Do The Decent Thing. Nice pussycat, come on, all soft and warm and only slightly stinky. Annoying noises it makes? Well, the answer lies in your own paws (and considerable heft). There’s a good cat now…
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If I were Chris, I would say “to hell with the secrecy Alice has been demanding” and go to either Jennifer or Susan for help.
Jennifer would be funnier, because he would also then have the opportunity to be seriously angry with Brian for having left Alice in charge of a bottle in the first place.
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Opportunity, yes; justification, no.
He will end up taking the screaming fleshlump to Emma’s, of course, just to reinforce the (current) position that she is no longer a grubby little slut but a MiW (Matriarch-in-Waiting). Pity. I had grown quite attached to the Hilda scenario.
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