Sweet Revenge: 200 Delicious Ways to Get Your Own Back

him and were able to operate successfully to remove it. Thus by shooting him, she actually saved his life which was the last thing she had wanted.
     

     
    Kathy Lette, author of the splendidly funny Foetal Attraction and The Llama Parlour wrought a revenge which was so sweet and oh, so simple that it has achieved Urban Myth Status. The story is mentioned in her book Girls Night Out and here Kathy describes the events in full:
     
    Looking back I blame it on the man shortage. In Sydney all the men are either married or gay. Or married and gay. And the rest have a three grunt vocabulary of 'na', 'dunno' and 'errgh'. Apart from the occasional Pommy poet passing through town, there is nobody. Nothing. Zilch.

    That's how I ended up having a close encounter of the grope kind with a MMM (Middle-aged Married Man). Like most of these scenarios, I didn't know he was married until I found the teething ring in his pocket. But by then it was too late. He was tall, dark and bankable with biteable buttocks and... I fell in love. (I was young enough not to know that when a man says his wife 'doesn't understand him' what it means is that he wants you under, not standing.)
    There were drawbacks. He was forever pulling away from my passionate love bite with a panic-stricken cry of 'Don't mark me!' After a night of heart-felt declarations of adoration and devotion, the next morning I'd pass him in the Woolworth's frozen food aisle... and he'd stare straight ahead as if he'd never laid eyes on me.
    Even worse was never knowing when he was going to drop around. Invariably it would be the night I was in my pyjammies covered in acne lotion, with one eyebrow plucked, my hair plastered in henna and wearing an organic face mask. A knock at the door would send me torpedoing down to the bathroom. Not wanting to waste my precious R-rated moments with him, I'd hack and scrape away at my legs with a blunt razor in the shower, simultaneously inserting my diaphragm and spraying the old bod with aphrodisiacal unguents. Slashed, trailing blood and covered in Band-Aids, I'd stagger breathlessly up the stairs and into his arms. (It was all right. He just loved my 'girlish charms'.)
    He promised he'd leave her. He promised we'd live together with a His and Her Harbour View. Marriage was in the air... well, I thought it was marriage. What it turned out to be was the car exhaust of his Alfa Romeo as he sped off into the sunset. I truly believed my MMM loved me, but it seemed I was merely a distraction - a little something to break the monogamy.
    You can imagine how I felt when he left his wife a few weeks later for a woman even younger than moi (a case of upward nubility) and ensconced her in a penthouse apartment with a His and Her Harbour View.
    There was only one thing to do. My girlfriend distracted the Super while I snatched the key. Once inside O took down the bedroom curtain rail. Removing the stoppers at the ends of the rail I stuffed the hollow cylinder full of prawns, replaced the stoppers and rehung the curtains. Now all I had to do was wait...
    It was a heat-wave summer. From my girlfriend's flat on the less salubrious side of the street we watched through binoculars as the love-birds tore apart the flat looking for the source of the odour. Within a week, he'd called the 'Rent a Kill' flick man. This was followed by a new carpet. Then, a complete re-wallpapering. We watched them have their first fight. The new girlfriend started sleeping in another room. Then she refused to go back into the apartment. Next, she moved out altogether. Shortly after, the apartment went up for sale.
    Revenge is sweet. Sweeter than tiramisu. And, with a broken heart and a wounded ego like mine it was, let's face it, cheaper than therapy.
    We watched the removal men pack the van. And the real beauty of it is, they packed the bedroom curtain rail.
     

     
    Lady Sarah Graham-Moon hit the headlines when she took revenge on her cheating husband, Sir Peter Graham-Moon, in spectacular style. Incensed that he had moved in with another woman before their divorce had gone through, she chopped the left arms off thirty-two of his Savile Row suits, tipped six litres of white paint over his beloved BMW and delivered seventy bottles of his vintage wines to neighbouring doorsteps in the Berkshire villages of Lambourne and East Garston where her husband was staying with his new girlfriend. She said: 'I've done my bit and I've run out of things to do now. I'm not loopy - I'm just