WALDEN’S WORLD
I’m living in a Piers Morgan museum
When I agreed to a 15-year sham marriage back in 2010, I was told a lot of things. I was told there would be handbags, movie premières and celebrity encounters. I was told there would be a whopping pay-off (can’t tell you how much – I’m bound by an iron-clad Non-disclosure Agreement). But nobody said anything about being forced to live in a Piers Morgan museum, packed with memorabilia.
In case you missed it, my husband has a new show starting tonight. Which explains (to some extent) the steady stream of Piers Morgan Uncensored goodie bags and boxes that have been arriving for weeks – and why our home looks like the gift shop of a theme park… dedicated to him.
You know that ghastly Duty-free walkway you’re forcibly made to pass through at the airport, in the hope that you’ll suddenly succumb to a five-kilo Toblerone and a bunch of designer scents and cosmetics pre-conditioned to explode over the contents of your suitcase on your way home? That’s our hallway. Only everything has my husband’s face on it.
There are “Bring it On Snowflakes!” snow globes on every surface and stress reliever ‘‘squishies’’ strewn about (squeeze one way and Piers’s red, horned head pops out at you; squeeze the other and he’s – rather more disturbingly – done up like an angel). There are “Unscentsored” candles in the sitting room (“made from melted snowflakes”), “The World’s Gone Nuts” mixed nuts on the kitchen table, and I changed my mind over what to spread on my toast when I saw that the Marmite had caught the virus too.
It won’t be long until I too am branded. Right now, I’m trying to prevent my daughter from applying an ‘‘I Heart Piers’’ tattoo to the back of my neck. But I will resist. I will stay strong. And I will keep silently repeating to myself: “Only three more years to go.”