Poor Serge my perfectly-formed, peachy arse! The many nights I have spent alone, waiting for the KGB to haul me from my bed for naked interrogation. You cannot imagine the unbearable pain and hardship of having to make sure all unwanted hair is removed, each blemish covered and every eyelash individually curled just so one can sleep for a few meagre hours!
To make matters worse, my slim (yet shapely) legs are just too long for a standard bed and each night I am cold and cramped. Serge's attendance is not sufficient. I need the calf massage and he is onboard an oligarch's yacht pandering to Mandelson or Kate Moss. All that keeps me going is the children. They all love me much more than they do their own old, fat, drudges of mothers so I must stay strong. If I were to die, who would fulfil their innate need for prettiness and power? Not the sad, droopy old sad bags they go home to each day.
After the incident with the marching powder and the guns, I say to Serge: "Enough! I cannot allow you to bring such insecurity to the poor unloved kindergarten children anymore. You do not understand that, in the absence of all beauty in their tiny underprivileged lives, I am mother and father to them all." His contempt as he grabs my 32EE breasts is palpable. I gather all the strength I have in my 5ft8 8'stone frame and tell him: "Enough! I will find myself a normal partner. A good honest, British man."
This is how the relationship began with the OP's ex .
Please do not judge me.
Celeste.