Just ask Emily!

Emily Brown, basically standing in the prime of her life, is a frustrated stay-at-home mum worrying about the welfare of her husband. But to feel real happiness, her dreary life needs to fulfil a dream she's had since she saw the first TV show offering advice to callers who have lost a sack of potatoes in the basement, don't know how to get beetroot out of their underwear or to burn your tongue with little effort and no hot food around.

Emily follows each one of these shows with keen interest and enthusiasm. And every time, she wants nothing more than to take on the role of advisor. She firmly believes that she can give real-life advice to those seeking help in a way that is much more understandable than these university graduates who know nothing about real life. But her life experience with her husband Paul cannot be compared to a university degree.

Well, Emily may be proud of her well-formed proportions, and she may have a hairstyle that is a dead giveaway to the fact that she was ambushed by a power generator a few seconds ago. But there is one thing that she will always have with her: an open ear for the problems and private affairs of other people.

Whether you want it or not, Emily's advice is given without any thought, without any frills, and with no regard for her survival. Last week, Emily Brown made a decision that will lead her the first few inches off the old sofa, away from the screen and in front of the cameras where her advice is so desperately needed.
One of the first things she did was to place a small advertisement in the local newspaper. The housekeeping money that Paul gives her every month is simply not enough for her.

It’s me, Emily!

I know far more than others, and I'll find the necessary tricks.
I always know what to do. There is no issue that I can't solve …
Your old man doesn't want it the way you want it, and the children don't care?
Is it itching underneath your boobs, or is your moustache out of control?
That's where Emily comes in. Because Emily knows what she's doing.
My advice will loosen the rope around your neck. My mobile phone is open day or night.

Who would have thought that less than eight days later, the first request for help would arrive in Emily's letter box? A woman from a surrounding village asked Emily to help her because she did not know any more how to help herself. For almost two weeks now, she has not been able to persuade her husband to fulfil his duties as a married man. The doctors in the intensive care unit, where her husband has been staying since he had a heart attack three weeks ago, are adamant that the breathing apparatus should not be switched off, not even for the ridiculous period of five minutes.

Emily knows all there is to know about this particular problem. Nothing is foreign to her — except clear thinking. Her husband Paul doesn't always want to either. And certainly not at times when she is in the mood. So, with her plea for help, this unfortunate woman from the nearest neighborhood has come to the right place.

Emily's piece of advice:
Hi Mrs Turner, I entirely understand what you are going through. Indeed, I can help you, and don't worry, it's free of charge. But only on the condition that it will remain a secret, just between you and me. Because if my Paul finds out that I'm going to spill the beans all over Europe, then the big storm will be in full swing as early as Tuesday. But let's start with the facts. When I was in a similar situation to yours, I didn't let up and worked out a plan to ensure that what I wanted was accomplished.

It is Saturday night, and we are at home. The football match on television has just finished. The six-pack is empty. I had already gone to bed because I knew my Paul would be here in a few minutes. The fact that all my bed linen had the smell of spaghetti “Bolognese” wasn't too much of a concern to me at the time because I was motivated, and I was starving. I was desiring Paul! Full of longing, I rolled over on Paul's side and was surprised to find that the smell of garlic wafting from the down of his pillow was so intense that even the Bolognese struggled to withstand it. This confirmed my long-held suspicion that the gentleman was feigning stomach pains and cramps. In the chip shop, not a single clove of garlic is spurned.

With no intention of having an argument with my husband in the coming minutes, I moved his pillow to the foot end. There was no way that a further supply of the aroma from his feet was going to make the situation any worse. At the last moment, I pulled the pillow with the least amount of flavor residue out from under my head and placed it there. It was just then that the sound of Paul's approach to the bedroom was ringing in my ears. As soon as he arrived at the side of the bed, the clumsy lad dropped onto the mattress, uncontrollably. It was only the high-pitched squeal that emanated from my battered lungs that alerted him to the fact that I was already lying on my side, hoping for a little more tenderness from him.

“What are you doing here", Paul asked me. And by that time, he had already turned his back on me. But that wasn't the end of the story. As if I didn't know, after only a few breaths, the first of his groans mixed in with the harmonious music of the night. That was the moment when my feelings started to run away with me, regardless of the other desires of my body, which now had to take second place for a short while.
He had not cut the grass that week, had not swept the road, had not even washed the car. Is it so unreasonable to ask him to do ten minutes of exercise with me? That's about all I can get out of him anyway.

The first thing I did was accidentally bump my knee into his back. Then I pretended to turn over on the other side and let gravity take its toll on my arm. And then I hit Paul on the head with the full force of my body. The lazy bastard finally managed to open his eyes. He was looking at me as if the train to Manchester had just passed the room in front of him.
To quickly engage him in conversation, I asked him if he had switched off the light in the living room. Paul replied, “Yes, I put a bucket of water over the light as I was walking past it”. I was reluctant to get up from under the warm duvet. I dragged myself down to the kitchen.

In the hallway, with a well-aimed blow from the back of my hand, I smashed our wedding photo to pieces as I walked by. In any case, it was nothing more than a relic from a time long gone. I didn't even make it to the entrance of the kitchen before I heard the snoring coming from the bedroom.
In the broom cupboard I found the two traps that Paul had bought a couple of months ago because he had a suspicion that we had raccoons under the roof. Since the traps had been bought, there had been no noise coming from the roof, so they had ended up in the broom cupboard. It has been proven time and time again that a good housewife must always be controlling what she has in the house and where it is at all times.

I made my way back to the bedroom with the two traps in my hand. Once again, I had been captivated by a quick, contemptuous glance at the broken glass in the hallway and the sound of Paul's intimate concert hall.
But this magic is full of the kind of negative vibes that can only be generated by listening to the singing of “The Clapham Junction Mixed Choir”. I had all the time in the world to tighten the traps and place them precisely in the slots of my beloved husband's slippers. I switched off the light and went back to the couple's bed, where I immediately began to shake Paul by the shoulders.
To my great amazement, he actually responded to this and looked at me with a look of astonishment. I had to bring him back up to speed rapidly so that he didn't go back to sleep right away.

I told him of my fears and that I was completely convinced that I had just heard the raccoons from under the roof. From one second to another, Paul was wide awake and told me in a few short words what he was going to do: He said: “Now they are ripe for the picking! Now is the time to do them in!”
These were the last well-spoken words I heard from my husband that night. The only thing I could see was the way in which Paul was swinging his legs out of the bed. And in that same second, I felt a huge amount of pity for him. I knew that no matter how quickly I tried to stave off the inevitable disaster, it was never going to work.

And so I reached for the bottle of iodine and the sterile wrapped bandages in the top drawer of my bedside table. There was no sound of the hinges clicking into place on the locking mechanism of the trap. Instead, all the snoring that was still in the room was drowned out by a scream that seemed to shoot through the floors of the various octaves like an oiled bolt of lightning.
The scream was followed by an almost eerie silence. My Paul took advantage of this to look down at his feet in disbelief. Whether it was the trickling blood or the unsightly restraints on his ankles that gave him the strength to let out another cry of pain, I'm not sure. Before the scream turned into a whimper and a moan, the suffering man turned to me and said: “Emily, you stupid arsehole! What kind of idiotic shit is this?”

But the time when my Paul would still have been able to articulate himself properly was, as I said, no longer on the agenda. So, because I didn't understand him well enough, I couldn't get him to explain what he wanted to say with arsehole and shit. In any case, it was only when he had stopped his incomprehensible moaning and stammering and had lapsed into a three-minute unconsciousness that I was able to get my husband's feet out of the jewellery.

The Bolognese blanket had been placed on the side of his body, and his pillow was already there. Fortunately, his pillow was already at his feet — what a twist of fate. So I could bring his injured lower leg back to a horizontal position. When Paul slowly reopened his eyes, all his wounds, the soles of his feet and his lower legs had already been soaked in iodine. They were wrapped in sterile white towels.

Believe me, Mrs Lambert. My Paul didn't close his eyes once that night. I did a lot of moisturising, caressing and massage work on him. Thanks to my basic knowledge of medicine, I knew that I did not want to allow too much blood to flow into the wounds, so I was careful. I've been so careful to make sure that the lifeblood would be able to collect at a higher level (you know where).
Despite the problems at the beginning, I managed to enjoy the night to the fullest.

So, in case you still have one or two questions left:
You are more than welcome to give me a call or write to me and let me know.
Even better, we can arrange to have a meeting at your place of business.
At least now you know that good advice does not have to be expensive.

Kind regards, Emily