Chapter 1
It was a beautiful winter’s day. Cold and crisp with a warming sun that rested low in the magnificent sky. To
platform in that moment of sunshine and peruse the street I live on was somewhat uplifting. The street I live
in is titled Fillet Crescent. Named by the local council after generations of fillet fishermen and their families
having lived there. Apparently, the local library contains archives dating back to the early 1800′s of fillet
fishermen residing there. also, these scribbling’s here containing so many fillets. I say scribbling’s, but I hope
someone will find them and turn them into a book or even a film one day. I hope Sue Perkins plays me. I like
her. Perhaps I should start by correcting any Fillet confusion. My maiden name is Fillet. I live next door to
another Fillet family totally unrelated to me. I fell for the charms of my neighbours son’s Fergus Fillet, who
lived next door. And after our marriage, I had no need to learn a new signature. Being a miss Fillet marrying a
Mr Fillet. We all know one. A newlywed giggling while practicing her married surname in front of all her
single friends. Very brazen, in my opinion, and somewhat childish of them mocking my fishy surname.
Although they did have the decency to be bridesmaids. They all knew that their 16 stone bodies would look
hideous in the brightest neon yellow. Yet still, they agreed. They looked like killer bananas slugging their great
fat arse cheeks down life’s longest aisle on one of the hottest days of summer. I experienced that sort of pain
myself during an afternoon stroll through the sand dunes with Fergus. I had to use barrier cream for months.
It was most certainly an Apfelsaft moment. My grandmother, bless her, as a child if I fell and grazed my knee
or after any childhood incident would always hug me and say Apfelsaft. I must have heard her use that word
hundreds of times while growing up. When the wind blew an item off the washing line, or she nicked her
finger while peeling vegetables, Apfelsaft. Gran told me Apfelsaft meant, “Everything was going to be okay”.
It was not until I was much older and she had passed away that I learned Apfelsaft is German for apple juice.
In the fondest memories of gran, I still use the word today for the synthetic meaning she gave the word. It
was on a Wednesday I received the news that Fergus had perished at sea. Well, they assumed so as no dead
body was recovered after the storm. It is a perilous life to be a fisherman. The words uttered about him at my
engagement party to his brother Finley were very praiseworthy of him. Such kind words about his young lost
body made it challenging for us to set a wedding date. But we somehow managed. The Mrs. Fillet my mother-
in-law next door is, in my opinion, a self-satisfying show-off. She and her husband, having had no children of
their own, adopted seven boys in total. Each one’s name was changed to a name beginning with an F. I am
always known by the name Mary, but that in fact is my middle name. My first name being Flange, it was
supposed to be Blanch after my great grandmother. But I fear the registrars in both cases had made grammar
inaccuracies. Meaning neither grandma nor me ending up being named Blanche as we were anticipated to be.
So, the wedding concluded and I am still Mrs. F Fillet. Finley with his mother’s direction thought a big
honeymoon inappropriate. So, we resolved on just the full two weeks abroad. Finley thought the best way of
spending Fergus’s life insurance payout was for him to buy himself a boat. This he did and named it Finley’s
fingers. His mother Francis Finley had become more and more agitated that no grandson had appeared. She
urgently longed a male grandchild that she would name Fergus after her beloved son lost at sea. She seemed
oblivious to the fact if I have a child, I may like to name it myself or at least have some input. I would for
certain avoid the confusion of any more F’s. Being void of all maternal instinct, and the fact Mrs. Fillet always
shopped with me made purchasing contraception was not possible. There was also no way I could ask Doctor
Teeth, our local practitioner, who had tea at Mrs. Fillets each Thursday. I know for sure, the entirety of the
villager’s ailments was part of the after-dinner tête-à-tête. Mrs Fillet would surely explode if I went to doctor
Teeth for contraception and he ever let it slip. Perhaps not wittingly on doctor Teeth’s part but certainly after
a few whiskeys. I think Mrs. Fillet fills his glass extra full for the sole purpose of loosening his tongue. The
only item I could manage to purchase without getting her suspicion raised was zip- close sandwich bags. They
are not ideal, and I have on occasion had to rely on my best friend Sarah-Jane with the use a torch to locate
and remove. Not an ideal scenario, but what are friends for? Sarah-Jane is my best friend, and we retain many
of each other’s secrets. Especially the sandwich bag related ones. Mrs. Fillet is not keen on her. She had her to
tea and tried to ply her with whisky. After finding out she was tea total, she has never been summoned again.
Mrs. Fillet knows whom the Doctor has prescribed antidepressants for, which neighbour has got acid reflux,
and so much more. It is only because Doctor Teeth writes out sick notes so readily, that the village has not
had him struck off. Anyhow it was approaching 7 o’clock, and there was no sign of Finley. He always started
in the early hours of the morning and was home by 4 o’clock each afternoon. Days pass and then, weeks and
months. One day as was with Fergus all seeking comes to an end. And after two years, Finley is assumed
dead. Mrs. Finley thought it best to keep my wedding to her third son Frank low key. There is low key and
there are five of us at the 58register office. Mrs. Finley informed me there was to be no surprise wedding
reception or honeymoon. But she had arranged a night out two villages over, ‘Away from gossip,’ she said.
Bitch, it was to go watch Mr. Fillet play darts. Mr Fillet’s local men’s teams were playing away in the much-
envied semi-final. The prize was £250. This huge, bellied man with darts in his hand, asked anyone desiring to
chalk up the scores with a huge aspiring smile on his red cheeks, like doing maths was a treat. He looked over
at Sarah-Jane and me. I think the look away we both gave him responded to his offer. He headed towards
Rosemary, a woman employed to gather and wash empty glasses from the pub tables, I think if I had her job I
would wear gloves, all that spit & slobber around the rims. Anyhow, Rosemary delighted to be asked &
offered ten whole pounds took the job. I have no idea why she agreed, as her math’s was atrocious. It was
after poor Rosemary made yet another mammoth subtraction error did the whole room erupted into
displeasure. Accusations like the stuffing from a pillow fight flew everywhere. I did feel sorry for Rosemary,
who by this point was in tears. Her nose had just started to drip onto her top lip when she tripped over her
own feet in the rush to find any exit. On the journey home, Mrs. Fillet sat in silence while Mr. Fillet
fashioning a black eye agreed it was appropriate decision to have a replay the following week. He was glad of
the delay, as he would now have an opportunity to buy some new flights for his darts, for which he had
already eyed up the set he desired. He kindly encouraged Sarah-Jane and me to be present at the replay.
Saying he would treat us to a portion of chips to share on the way home if we agreed. We could not say that
we would rather boil our heads in urine; so instead, we said ‘Yes, thank you, we would love to,’ looking at
each other with every intention of pulling a sickie. A fake cough and an appointment with Doctor Teeth
should have it safeguarded. We didn’t get any chips that night as he had meant on the night of the replay in a
weeks’ time if we attended. That evening, Frank asked me if I sensed to be awkward between the sheets and
suggested I may like to use his middle name should another man starting with an F make me uncomfortably
frigid. Or perhaps even foreplay where we both make-believe to be someone else. He did try donning a clown
outfit, but the big red nose was an issue, the soft toy fluffy cat adorning his vets attire was cute, but we
summoned a halt after pretending to resuscitate him play-acting as a president while I dressed as Marilyn
Monroe. An outfit purchased online along with fake eye lashes. A un situated eye lash landed in his mouth
and almost choked him. His middle name was Phillip, but in Mrs. Fillet’s wisdom or lack of it, she spelt it
Fillip. Quite unbelievable. I am married to Frank Fillip Fillet; my wedding reception was a pub brawl. Life is
unpredictable and sometimes cruel. It was not long before the third Fillet son in a row was lost to the sea.
Mrs. Fillet made it perfectly clear that she was expecting three grandsons named Fergus, Finley and Frank.
Not the most appropriate part of her rambling speech at my fourth wedding to her son Fred. Fred who was
by far the best looking of all the Fillets. His face seemed in better proportion than the other seven. As
children, Sarah-Jane and I called them the seven dwarfs and gave them all names. We named Fergus Fishy, as
he always smelt of fish. Spending most weekends and school holidays out on his dad’s fishing boat. Finley, we
named Fart face. Not that his face shared any resemblance to a fart, but just because we did not like him.
Frank, we named Pissy Pants after an incident on a bouncy castle aged six that up until to the day he went
missing at sea we still recapped to him. Fred both myself and Sarah-jane flirted a lot with, in our teenage
years. But as kids, we named him ‘Fred’s head is made of lead’. Yes, I agree, it necessitates the question,
WHY? But, as small children singing, it made him cry and run home to mummy causing it purpose enough
todid have seven kids. It was brain blasting thinking up nasty names for all of them as well as doing our
homework. Fernando, we just sang the Abba song to. Changing vital words, of course, Sarah-Jane and myself
would dance around him singing to the music of the Abba song. ‘You are an ugly boy, Fernando.’ And sundry
other sentences along those lines. Then last of all, Fricx Fillet pronounced with a silent X. Oh my! Fricx
rhyming with dick was just too good of an opportunity to miss. Fricx with a silly dick, Fricx with a crooked
dick, the variants were endless. I always wondered why Sarah- jane didn’t marry a fillet. Anyhow, I think
subconsciously, that is why I do not want kids. In case they turn out childhood brats like Sarah-Jane and Me.
A widow for the fourth time, I resolve to back away my zip-close sandwich bags and indulge in the possibility
of Internet dating. Sleep well first, good night, Fergus, Finley, Frank and Fred wherever you are.
Well, I did not participate into the dating scene with haste. First, I got a puppy to see if it would be the
company I crave. The man’s best friend you read about who rescues its owner from a burning Bungalow. You
know, that sort of thing. It was a collie crossed with a German shepherd cross. The German shepherd mother
crossed with some breed of terrier. The rescue Centre let me have the first dib on the six puppies. Sarah-Jane
accompanied me, and together we picked one. I named him Oscar. And after we visited the pet shop to
purchase dog things. The house and garden inspection by the rescue centre completed, Oscar was home. My
gosh, I was running out of pooh bags fast, I never realised puppies poohed as much at this rate, I would have
to resort to my secret stash of zip-close sandwich bags. But I guess I had no other need for them now. It
revealed to me that just as I was not a having-children type person, I was definitely not a having-a-dog sort of
person. Luckily enough, Mrs. Fillet next door adopted him and renamed him Froggy. I guess after his bulgy
eyes. It may have been because, as like all her family, froggy loved the water. Or even because it started with
yet another bloody F. The most cheerless day of my life so far was when I heard the news that my best friend
say it. Son number five Ford we named rusty car. I know, not inventive at all. But, in our defence, Mrs. Fillet
Sarah-Jane had died in a car accident. Froggy had run out into the road. Sarah-Jane who was driving slammed
on her brakes, swerved, mounted a high curb and just after knocking over Mrs. Fillet’s bins, hit a lamppost.
Mrs. Fillet’s waste lay spewed across the road. Most of it was swiftly restored to her spotless receptacles.
Although two empty boxes of zip closed sandwich bags still lay hidden just underneath her perfectly trimmed
hedge. I smiled seeing them and thought to “myself you go girl “I had never seen a dead body before, I could
not bring myself to see my parents, and I like to imagine them as angels with wings. The chapel of rest
seemed crispy cold without the low-down winter sun to stand in. I entered, repeating the word Apfelsaft
quietly to myself over and over. The room was silent and empty. Sarah-Jane looked out of place. I wanted to
put music on my mobile phone and say come on; Sarah-Jane let’s dance. Even with injuries to her face from
the accident, she still looked beautiful. The air in the room sensed somehow heavy I could feel it touching me.
Initially I stretched my hand towards her cautiously almost like I was about to touch something I did not want
to touch. And I suppose I was; I was touching what death felt like. It felt like shit, cold unresponsive and far
too permanent. Dance in heaven, Sarah-Jane. Goodbye, my dear friend. On the way home, I popped into
Mrs. Fillet’s to see how Froggy was mending with his broken leg and a fractured skull. Thankfully, a couple of
months later, he was back to his old self. Chasing cyclists and his favourite dodging cars game, which He
appeared to have gotten masterful at. Perhaps Mrs. Fillet should have sent a video of his skill to Britain’s got
talent. Apparently, Simon likes dog acts, my mind straying to acts with dogs. Pity his wife. Lonely months
pass, and I turn to the Internet for solace. There is a varied selection of sites to join. I settle on one called,
“Share Your Moments”. Longing to share a moment I fill in the registration form, dip into the little that’s left
from Fred’s life insurance payout and Bingo, I have joined. What a revelation, I had never thought of Bingo.
Too late now. I have already paid the registration fee. Not all is lost though, as if I meet up with a handsome
stranger, Bingo could be the first meeting place. Plenty of people about, and a Taxi rank right outside for
quick escape. The Internet dating scene was not at all what I had expected. My notion was to meet my dream
man. I had made it clear in my Profile status no fishermen accepted or anyone with the surname Fillet or a
first name starting with F. My inbox pinged, and numerous pictures of men’s willies appeared in considerably
different shapes and sizes, some more impressive than others. Made me think of Sarah-jane, we would have
shared a bottle of wine, well not strictly share as Sarah-jane didn’t drink alcohol, I would have drunk the wine
while we both would after looking at the willy pic’s sent these men the most belittling replies they’ve ever had.
Sarah-jane was tea total but not adverse to making fun of willies. It was after months of enduring willy-
agonized pictures and messages unsuitable for print that, with a heart full of dismay, I acknowledged the
advances of Mrs. Fillet’s fifth son, Ford Fillet. Plenty of zip-close sandwich bags in stock, our wedded life
began. You probably know by now how it went. And of course, you are absolutely spot on – a widow for the
5th time. It was a very stormy night indeed. Search and rescue searched for three days and nights for Ford
Fillet and two other fishermen. Stanley Right and Angus Stains. What is a woman to do? With my
subscription to “Share Your Moments” still in date, I reconnect my mouse and search for some loving. At
last, I get a real date. I do so hope it’s a real date and not one of the willy pic’s in person. So excited, I get all
girlie. What to wear, how to walk and what to talk about I wish Sarah jane was here. I cannot really tell him I
am a widow of five men. I hope he does not know anyone in the village, as Mrs. Fillet has made posters
saying I am a witch. Written in bold print, it says, “Beware, this woman practices the Dark arts”. She has
personally, displayed them on every public notice board and lamp post for miles around. For goodness’ sake,
who does she think I am, Hermione Granger? Wish I were, I would learn that spell that makes people
disappear. Note to self. Learn to drive; that way, I can date further away where there is no chance, they will
ever know of Mrs. Fillet. The date I had longed for, the date I had spent so many nights dreaming of, was, of
course, a complete disaster. He did not match his profile picture at all. In fact, he matched exactly an image in
several of my many wedding photographs. And the reason for this was my dream man turned out to be
Fernando Fillet. Mrs. Fillet’s sixth son, wearing a wig. The wedding vows were also a complete disaster due to
his cleft palate and noticeable lisp and the fact I almost said Apfelsaft instead of I do. Even Mrs. Fillet
frowned. She is very strong on her F’s and is indignant when F’s and S’s are combined. After Mrs. Fillet had
searched my bedroom for Voodoo paraphernalia, the consummation of the wedding night could go ahead.
The following Saturday, we booked a long weekend in a local bed & breakfast. A honeymoon slash mini
break. I had to ring for room service, as the receptionist could not understand a word Fernando said. We cut
our mini-break short, only staying one night as Fernando was missing his mother. I do not know why, since
she phoned every hour. She would make up an excuse for calling. I think she was phoning to check he was
still breathing, given my track record so far. Alas, he was not to breathe for long – getting lost at sea only
thirteen days after our wedding, my shortest marriage so far. Mrs. Fillet was fuming. I think her anger towards
me lessened her grieving. She had forbidden Fernando to become a fishman worried his speech impediment
would hamper his chances of rescue. Should he ever need to radio the coast guard for help. Alas with so
many of her son’s presumed dead someone had to catch the fish. Hence began Fernando’s short career on
the high seas. Mrs Fillets posters went back up around the village, and I think the local newspaper agreeing to
print her story about me aided her mourning. Every time she saw me, the words Witch and Bitch rang in my
ears. I found it best to go out my back door and climb over the fence in preference to bumping into her.
Although this did call for more trousers as a skirt is not the attire for this pursuit. Time passes and our
wounds that once lay raw and open heal, leaving only a scar to remind us of the events. As time passed, Mrs.
Fillet did start acknowledging me, but even on the hottest summers day, her uttering would cut like frost.
After realizing I was going out my back door, she had started using her back gate in order to confront me. It
was difficult to respond when halfway over a fence, and although it was not a high fence there was a prickled
bush and stinging nettles to consider. Look at me Mrs. Fillet was shouting, leaving the choice between look at
Mrs. Fillet and land in prickles or ignore Mrs. Fillet and make her anger towards me heighten! Perched
unsteadily upon a fence and thinking quickly I decide to fall into the prickles thinking she may calm down and
come to my aid. This was not the case she marched out through her back gate glared down at me saying
“that’s some just deserts” I consider the word just to mean fair and the word desert to mean cake being eaten
in a prickle bush. This did not feel like either. I think what alleviated it between us was the day she left home
more of a charade without speaking, me pointing to what I thought may be a public order offense, as I was
not certain if it was legal to reveal your knickers in a public place. She was on her way to the shop’s as doctor
Teeth was coming for tea. As she wriggled about to get her garments straightened, her shopping list slipped
from her manly hand. I glanced at it lying on her perfect lawn. Just before she covered it with her large right
foot, I managed to catch the words, ‘Large bottle of whisky.’ There is definitely something she wanted to find
out about a villager tonight. I do hope whatever it may be is not serious or worthy of one of Mrs. Fillet’s
posters. Oh well, the sunrises and sets, and with that, time passes. And also, with that, my subscription to
“Share Your Moments” expires. After some research, I settle on joining“ Love to your Bunny”, only to find
out it was not a dating site. I kept it in my favourite’s list on my computer; because after reading the small
print, which said all deliveries come in discreet packing, I thought why not treat myself. Mrs. Fillet said she
opened the package thinking it was hers. We agreed I would say nothing about her knickers episode to
anyone, and she would keep my secret. Anyway, I join a site called “One Meets One”. My first date was with
Colin, a retired bus driver. He was beyond the acceptable age range I had stated in my profile, but it seemed
like a waste to let the contents of my secret package from Love Your Bunny go to waste. My zip-close
sandwich bags had never let me down before. It must have slipped out of position, and to my horror, nine
months later; there I was, laid in hospital with nurses asking had I thought of names for my triplets. Mrs.
Fillet was very generous and agreed to adopt all three of them. I hastily signed the adoption papers, which
read they were to be adopted by Mrs. Francis Fanny Annie Fillet and her long-suffering husband Fenton
Fillip Fillet. She named the triplets Fergus, Finley and Frank, after her first three sons who were lost at sea.
After my self-prescribed hide away in bed for months, I venture out of my flannelette pyjama’s and vow to
with the back of her skirt tucked in her large knickers. I was polite enough to whisper it to her. Well, it was
myself in the mirror that I shall find my dream husband. Renewing my subscription to online dating, I scroll
through the opportunities. I whittle it down to five suitors. Andrew, a solicitor who lived not too far away. He
could come in handy for any legal advice if I ever needed some. And with Mrs Fillet next door having free
legal advice would be a bonus. Toby, a self-employed chauffeur from some town I had never heard of. I
Google this destination, and it was doable via a train and two buses. A Chauffeur could always be handy for a
lift someplace. Could also be the nominated driver on a boozy night out? Eric, a landscape gardener.
Someone who Mrs. Fillet would approve of. She does like a correctly pruned bush. Simon, who had not
answered the employment question. But was six feet tall and very handsome. Or Lance, a mature student
studying Psychology at University. He could come in handy with how to deal with Mrs. Fillet. On a last look
through the site, I change my mind and decide to message Carmen. Her profile grabbed me and her picture
transfixed me. I think to myself, why not? I am a modern woman. I have had six husbands that have not
ended well, it is now time to marry a woman. Her profile read well. A classroom assistant, whose hobbies
were mountain climbing and jumping out of airplanes. I had to do a bit of research, as I was not sure if we
both were to act womanly, or one of us was to take on a more masculine role. Should I pull out her chair
when we meet or offer to pay the bill? None of the sites were helpful, and I so wanted to make a good
impression. so, it was a case of suck it and see. We agreed to meet locally. It was a cold day, so I appreciated it
not being too far away, just a short bus journey. Note to self again, must learn to drive! I tried hard not to bite
my nails, as I did not want to appear nervous. I arrived early, not on purpose but because the bus only did
two journeys that day. One option would arrive far too late, and I did not envisage Carmen waiting around, so
I took the early one. The skies had cleared and the sun shone through, so the two-hour wait was not so bad.
Carmen, who was very nice, could sense how nervous I was and suggested a portion of chips to share.
