The Well Women's
Group
Jennifer was last to arrive
at the monthly social gathering of the Well
Women’s Group.
‘Hi,’ she said as
she joined the other super-fit paragons of health
and vitality.
‘How are you?’
responded Sarah, handing Jennifer an isotonic,
vitamin enhanced fruit juice.
‘I feel great, as
usual,’ Jennifer replied, ‘but I’m
pretty pissed-off.’
Alice joined them, jogging
on the spot. ‘What’s the matter, Jen?’
‘I’m sick of
being exploited by members of the ill community
just because of my continuous wellness.’
Jennifer sipped her drink. ‘Mavis, who works
with me, got run over by a bus on Monday. Now
I’ve got to do all her work as well as my
own while she just lies in a hospital bed for a
year or two.’
‘I know just what you
mean,’ Sarah sympathised. ‘That selfish
son of a bitch who was painting my flat
couldn’t even go on holiday to Africa
without catching Ebola. I bet the shit gave no
thought to having left the work half finished and
me having all the hassle of finding another
decorator…’
‘At least you can see
real symptoms of physical illnesses,’ Alice
interrupted. ‘It’s the malingering sods
with so called mental illnesses that make me so
angry. Those idle bastards just whinge that they
are suffering from depression, or similar, and
expect the rest of us to sympathetically let them
freeload.’
‘You ex-husband had
depression, didn’t he, Alice?’
remembered Jennifer.
‘As soon as he told me,
I said I was divorcing him.’
Sarah poured herself
another juice. ‘How did he react to that?’
‘When that type
don’t get a guilt free passport to pampered
luxury, they up the stakes. My ex said he would
kill himself.’
Jennifer was curious.
‘Why do people do that?’
‘They’re angry
about not being able to manipulate everyone,’
explained Alice, ‘and want to punish us all
with guilt.’
‘What did you do when
he made that threat?’ asked Sarah.
‘I bought some rope,
sharpened the knives and left full boxes of
paracetemol around the house. I even got some new
cartridges for his shotgun. Then I walked out.
‘Did he…?’
continued Sarah, wide-eyed.
‘Nope. In the end I
had to shoot him myself.’
Suddenly, the attention of
the three women was drawn to Marilyn as she
staggered half way across the room and then
collapsed to the floor in front of them.
‘She doesn’t look
well,’ observed Jennifer, noting the rapid,
shallow breathing, dilated pupils and blue-tinged
skin tone.
The women recognised a
medical emergency and knew they must act quickly.
Sarah and Jennifer lifted
Marilyn and carried her towards the door. Alice
recovered Marilyn’s handbag and, while
following the others, removed Marilyn’s Well
Women’s Group membership card from her bag.
They deposited the body on
the doorstep of a house across the road, rang the
bell and ran.
Back at the Group, Jennifer
poured juice for them all. ‘The nerve of
that woman,’ she said. ‘She’ll get
a final formal warning from the Group if she
lives.’
‘And if she dies?’
enquired Sarah.
Jennifer and Alice spoke
decisively in unison: ‘Exclusion for gross
misconduct.’
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