September 2nd, 1990
At home, England
Sometimes, just when it seems you’re at the point of knowing someone really well, they do something that leaves you questioning why you remain friends with them.
That’s what happened this morning when, after taking one look at the tea I made for her, Millie flew into a rage and started shouting.
“You should know by now I don’t like that much milk in my tea!”
Seriously Millie, that’s your problem right now, is what I ought to have said (bellowed!) in response to her outburst that went on for several minutes, while I stood paralyzed, not quite knowing what to do. Continuing her rant, she stormed upstairs and slammed the guest bedroom door (which I did not appreciate!)
A couple of hours, she reappeared, looking sheepish and uttered, “Sorry.”
“What is wrong with you?” I said, glaring at her.
“I get really bad bouts of PMS. I usually take Primrose Oil but I forgot to bring it with me.”
I doubt Primrose oil is a cure for your erratic behaviour, I wanted to say but instead I just shook my head and continued to read the Sunday paper.
I was hoping she’d say she should probably get going, even though the plan was for her to spend the night but instead she got lost in a crossword puzzle and the afternoon passed quietly.
By early evening, Millie had made such a miraculous recovery that she suggested we go to the pictures. We drove to The Point and suffered through, “Wild Orchid,” only because all the good movies were already sold out.
In the bar afterwards, she asked what I think of Mickey Rourke.
“He’s alright I suppose, but he’s not really my type.”
“I think he’s a big, fat, ugly git and I hate him,” she hissed
“Don’t be so ridiculous Millie, you don’t even know him.”
“Don’t want to,” she pouted, throwing back a tequila shot. “Let’s go.”
Yeah, I thought, let’s go and find you a big, barrel of Primrose oil!