Most beautiful things in life have urban legends. Curtains poles are no different.
There was a woman, she had a husband. But not for much longer. She found out he had been cheating on her with his secretary, presumably Swiss, presumably 20 years younger. After much toing and froing it was decided they would divorce. The main reason being: he was a big cheating bastard.
So he went away with Frieda for a few nights and left his broken wife at their broken home to pack up her broken life. She packed what she could, the bits that weren’t tainted with bitter memories, once beautiful, now rotten. On the first night she wept as she decided who got which DVD (she got The Silence of the Lambs, he got 27 Dresses the big cheating git). The second night she cried as she packed her clothes, throwing most of them away as he bought her them. Who could wear clothes born of deceit? On the third night though, she ate. She ate caviar, and garlic shrimps, and sardines and smoked salmon. She ate most of them anyway. With the rest she walked around the house and stuffed them inside the hollow curtain poles.
The next day she was gone, and the husband was back with Frieda. They started together, anew, in the house that held a former love. For a time they were happy. But one particularly warm evening there was something in the air. A certain… wiff. Perhaps an animal had died outside? They closed the windows and thought nothing of it. A few days later the smell was still there, an inspection of the garden turned up no unfortunate critters. No over-turned rubbish. No leaky sewage.
It was around this time they realised the smell must be coming from inside the house, so they cleaned. Frieda and the big cheat scrubbed and bleached and swept and polished. But still, the smell remained. A plumber was called, but the pipes were unblocked and flowing freely. The council were called, but the sewers were spotless. An exterminator was called, and even after he found nothing but performed a three day fumigation anyway, the smell still lingered. Stronger than ever now. Something was definitely rotting. Was it the ex-wives resentment? Probably not. Was it the half a kilo of shrimp inside the bedroom curtain poles? More than likely.
After changing the carpets and tossing his favourite sheepskin rug, they could take no more. They put the house on the market. The estate agent came round, and despite the pong concluded such a house, in such a location would easily sell. Given they knocked a few quid off. He was wrong. A month later they knocked a bit more off. Another month even more. By the end of the third month the estate agent didn’t answer the phone, never mind come round to the property.
At the end of the fourth month, at their wits end and slightly ill from breathing in too much Febreeze they get a call. It’s the ex-wife. Though she can’t stand the big cheating bugger and Frieda with the boobs, she misses the house. It was a good house. Solid walls and warm radiators. Are they perhaps selling it? Yes! Of course they are! And for nearly half the market value! A few days later Philandering Phil and Feckless Frieda are off, counting their blessings and breathing the fresh air. The wife moved in, bringing the lovely new curtain poles she just bought. She opened the windows wide and let the breeze blow through. She sat back in her massive house, and how she laughed.