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It Doesn’t Touch The Mango

Which of the two following stories is scarier?

Thing 1. This week I saw a new physiotherapist. She told me I should wear what can only be described as a late onset chastity belt: a flesh coloured pelvic support belt that will supposedly hold my joints together enough to let me chase my husband down the street after he flees in fright at the sight of me wearing it.

Coiled and ready to strike fear into the heart of he who dares to peek beneath my huge stretchy clothes.

It’s horrible. What’s worse is that it seems to be helping a bit, so I can’t really jettison it yet. I like to team it with a large maternity pant and a wincing hobble. My GQ (glamour quotient) is in the negative numbers these days.

Thing 2. Uncle Superchief brought some sliced mango over for May Blossom. She hadn’t had mango since last summer, and was reluctant to try it. I told her it tasted like peach (which she had a few months ago in the USA), so she grudgingly took a bite. Then another. Then she grabbed the fork and became a slurping blur of metal and fruit.

When her father politely asked if he could please have some too, in a low, growling voice, and with an expression on her face that would have stopped the heart of a lesser man, she told him, ‘It doesn’t touch the mango.’

Do you remember the serial killer in The Silence of The Lambs? I’ll say no more then. You can be sure that it, being her loving father, didn’t dare touch the mango.

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