Emma Weeks is not all that she appears to be.
On first impressions, she strikes you.
Oh, I'm sorry - on first impressions she strikes you as a rather shy, quiet person - but one that is instantly likeable, with a warm smile and a kind word. Or a kind smile and a warm word - whichever suits you best.
I first met Emma at a barbecue a few years back. Initially, I thought she was a stuck up snob who could probably benefit from a swift punch up the wazoo - but then again, so could I. Upon further investigation, I discovered that she was a wonderfully kind and lovely person - who could still benefit from a punch up the wazoo.
Emma is also an enigma - highly intelligent on matters linguistic, musical, biological, edible, and geographical, she is also a dumb as a fence post when it comes to more grounded topics. However, she covers any shortcomings by smiling sweetly and spitting in your coffee when you are not looking.
Emma is a mother - no, not a mutha - and has two wonderful children. Three - if you count Alyn. Her son Dylan is a wonderfully terrifying three year old, who is inquisitive to the extreme - recently forcing his father to try to explain where the sun goes when it sets and how the orbits of the planets work.
Fern - who is also called 'Foo' (or Foosal, Foo-man-chu, Sir Isaac Foo-ton, and Foo the F*ck are you looking at!?) - is a dribbly baby of unknown age. Well I don't know, she's not my kid so why should I care?
Fern is gorgeousness incarnate, and has me wrapped around her little finger every time I see her. That baby Ju-Jitsu really has to be seen to be believed!
But Emma also has a darker side - it the side she lays on in bed, and forgets to wash. She is also a scheming, manipulative vixen who is probably plotting the downfall of those around her as we speak. Yesterday she hatched a plan to surprise her fiance Alyn (he of the Bearded Angel fame from previous blogs) with Tickets to see Billy Connolly in Bournemouth last night - and she roped me into it. She sent me an ambiguous text which simply said "I need your help - call me at home".
Immediately, alarm bells sounded in my head. Was she hurt? were the kids alright? Did she have any cookies left over from last time?. I called her - and to my relief (and disappointment) found that I was wrong on all three counts. She told me about the Billy Connolly tickets and said that she had told Alyn to come home straight from work (instead of wasting half an hour stacking sheep in a local field) because I needed to talk to him. My job was to play the part of the troubled friend.
A piece of easy.
The trouble is, our plan worked a little too well. Alyn called me at work, saying that Emma had said I needed to talk to him. I said that I couldn't say at work, but would come round to his house at 6:30 that evening and tell him. What I didn't know was that through further conversations with Emma, Alyn had got it into his head that I had something embarrassingly medical wrong with me. So when he walked through the door of his house later that night, the look on his face was a picture!
Fortunately, Emma is rubbish at keeping a straight face - so we came clean, and broke the surprise. You should have seen his face light up - Beards and candles don't mix, kids. With no time to spare I whisked him off to Bournemouth to see old Billy.
And all of this was the satanic spawn of Emma's brain. She may be pretty as a picture - but she'll dance on your grave for sure!!
Love you Em!! xx