Angelina and me

I came back from the dry cleaner’s last week and on the approach to my house I saw a crowd of people outside, mostly midgets.

When I got to the front door I realised it was Angelina Jolie and her children.

I froze, with all the cellophane-wrapped hangers sliding off my arm. But I soon remembered myself:

‘Please, come in. I’ve just picked up some stem ginger biscuits from Sainsbury’s.’

Angelina didn’t say anything.

‘From the Taste the Difference range,’ I reassured her.

I knew it wasn’t the best introduction but, to be honest, I was worried about all the Jolie-Pitts fitting into my mouse house.

In the event, Bruno organised them into a football team so Angelina and I could get better acquainted in the kitchen.

I asked her if she flew herself over because I know she’s got her pilot’s licence. But she said her Cirrus SR22 only has 4 seats and the gang wouldn’t fit.

‘I’m hoping to use it more in my humanitarian work,’ she said and looked like she might like to continue on the subject.

So maybe, in retrospect, I shouldn’t have jumped in:

‘Or you could do your own aerial recces when you’re looking for another baby to buy.’

After that she sort of turned her head and stared in the corner for a while so I guessed she wanted to have a look at the cookbooks in the cabinet.

I told her all about Delia Smith and Jamie Oliver. She seemed interested. (Either that or she’s a good actress!)

The truth is I can’t make bechamel sauce without thinking about her because I read recently that she only likes to introduce another baby to the family once the new one has been absorbed.

So lasagnes remind me of her and Jen Aniston at the same time now, which is bizarre.

I thought about fessing up about the mock blog dialogue I did between her unborn twins in the womb but decided it wouldn’t do either of us any favours.

Instead we talked about fishing regulations in the Norwegian sea, dolls house miniatures and Winona Ryder.

All the way through, she wore the same expression as the one at the Oscars. And in The Changeling. And in photos of her with Brad.

When I considered her difficult relationship with Jon Voight, self-harming, two divorces, bisexual affair, 6 children, multiple tattoos and the vampire/incest/adultery rumours that have hounded her, it struck me how calm she was and then out of nowhere,

‘Do you believe in aliens?’ I said out loud.

‘If people want to believe in aliens, good for them.’

God, this woman is liberal and traditional and open-minded and monogamous all at the same time. Amazing.

We took a stroll around the garden and I couldn’t help staring at all the tattoos on her back. I was particularly confused by one that read, ‘Quod me nutrit me destruit’.

Now I know it means, ‘What nourishes me destroys me’ but at the time I thought it meant, ‘Kick me. I’m nutritious but destructive’.

Finally, I plucked up the courage to ask her a naughty question:

‘My friend was at a screening of ‘The Bone Collector’ and the wife of the Australian DOP shouted out, ‘Struth, she’s got lips like a vagina!’

Does that shock you?’

‘Nothing shocks me. Brad loves my mouth.’

‘Maybe it’s for the same reason,’ she added mischievously.

I went bright red and pointed to a cat in the garden.

Presently, Bruno brought the little ones downstairs and helped them into an electricity-fuelled limousine.

We had a hug and then she grabbed me with five of her bony digits.

‘One last tip. When Gwyneth gets in touch…’

‘But –’ I protested.

‘Don’t pull any of that Hugh Grant crap with me. You know she’s gonna call…

Just watch the potty mouth. She’s a PAP and she’ll think you’re vulgar.’

I appreciated the word of warning and yelled, ‘Thanks, Ange!’ after the car.

Then I added ‘elina’, because all of a sudden I had a nasty image in my head of Den Watts’ pikey wife from Eastenders.

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