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I'd worked out a strategy of avoidance, aimed at reducing contact with this unwelcome relative to an absolute minimum. For it was as though, with that preternatural vision of hers, she had spotted me there at the window.
I would take my evening meal up to my room, pleading a homework backlog. Her antipathy toward Aunt Doreen, as with most of her dislikes, was reluctant, erratic and continually subject to revision. She didn't appear startled, or shocked, or offended. I almost jumped out of my skin when the back door swung open and my mother emerged from the house.
I was a timid, virginal kid, small and scrawny - "sensitive", according to my mother - always buried in a book, or ensconced in the bathroom with the door securely bolted, masturbating to invented scenarios involving the most physically spectacular of the sixth-form's female contingent, or my modestly sexy Latin teacher, Miss Dunham.
I was drawn to older women as I felt they would be more forgiving of my multitudinous inadequacies. So it was with considerable foreboding that I came home from school that Monday afternoon, knowing Aunt Doreen would be there.
She drank like a fish, smoked like a chimney and her laugh wasn't merely unladylike, it was downright obscene.
She would invariably inquire whether I had a girlfriend and then relish my embarrassment, laughing as she stared right into my soul.
My mother more than once referred to Aunt Doreen as a "man-eater", a term which, to my eighteen-year-old mind, had certain sinister connotations.
Horror of horrors, I had been left alone with Aunt Doreen for the entire evening. Feeling in grave danger of fainting, I stepped into the hallway, and told myself to take the evening hour by hour, minute by minute, to postpone the inevitable confrontation with my aunt for as long as was humanly possible.
I would just have to play it by ear and hope for the best, pray for some miracle to deliver me from death by embarrassment.
Ended up having to chuck it away." Another thing I knew about Aunt Doreen: she hated to cook. My parents never had alcohol in the house, even at Christmas. "Well I'm in charge tonight and I'll take full responsibility if you end up drunk and disorderly, all right? Special occasion like this calls for a tipple." Maybe it was just me, but there was something about the way she enunciated that last word, emphasising it and deliberately catching my eye as she did so. Not because the shepherd's pie was poor - my mother's cooking is invariably excellent - but on account of my increasing trepidation. I decided that the best thing to do would be to retreat to my room as soon as possible, pleading homework as my alibi. Aunt Doreen pulled away again and straightened up, arching her back and taking a theatrically deep breath to compose herself, I felt forced to conclude, with sober resignation, that I had now received my birthday present, my special treat, in its entirety, and all the rest would remain firmly in the realm of fantasy.
She also hated cleaning, washing clothes and ironing, if my mother were to be believed. I think that was the really scary thing about Aunt Doreen: it was all too easy to tell precisely where her enthusiasm did lie, to guess her favourite activity. I'd never even tasted the stuff and, to be honest, found it a little scary. I almost expected her to ask: "Can you think of a word that rhymes with that? Much more of this and I would be either fleeing or fainting. Aunt Doreen ate hungrily, pausing every now and then to sip at her wine.
I tiptoed past the closed kitchen door and was halfway up the stairs when Aunt Doreen's nicotine-ravaged voice stopped me dead in my tracks. Her feet were bare, her toenails painted vivid red. Struggling to summon the courage, I followed Aunt Doreen into the kitchen. Can't believe how time flies." She flicked her cigarette butt into the sink. thanks." "Just a little tiny bruise, not much of one. Poor love, come here..." Her thin lips puckering, she bent and kissed the bruise.