Let's Be Grown-Up About This
I have this theory about the kitchen bin that annoys the heck out of my wife. My theory is that, no matter how full the bin appears to be, there鈥檚 always room for one more bit of rubbish. Always. Therefore, if you follow my logic, there is never any need to go to the bother of emptying said bin with all the associated hassle of replacing the interior bag and taking the old one to the outside wheely-bin.
Mrs Z., as you can imagine, has her own views on this theory but for reasons of taste and decency they need not detain us here.
Of course this is the same woman who believes it is socially acceptable to hum three notes over and over again for hours on end even though it is clearly driving others to distraction. Previous attempts to dissuade her from this habit have always ended in retaliation and recrimination along the lines of:
鈥淲ell we all have to put up with your so-called singing!鈥
It鈥檚 the 鈥渟o-called鈥 in that sentence that really hurts. I consider my vocal talents to be on a par with Sinatra or Pavarotti. Especially in the shower. And in my own head.
Anyway, while we鈥檙e trading insults, can I just point out that Mrs Z. thinks it鈥檚 OK to leave the butter out of the fridge for five minutes when any rational person could tell you that this kind of shoddy practise led to the outbreak of plague in Europe during the middle-ages. Or was that because people left their rats out of the fridge? I can never remember.
And don鈥檛 get me started on what she does in the car when I鈥檓 driving and listening to the radio. The slightest little incident causes her to emit a loud gasp and clutch the dashboard. Fair enough, we do disagree on what constitutes a 鈥渓ittle incident鈥. I think going the wrong way through a roundabout is the kind of thing that just happens when you鈥檙e absorbed in a particularly good radio programme. It鈥檚 not necessarily the kind of blunder that 鈥渃ould get us all killed鈥.
Leaning on the ironing board while you wait for the iron to heat up. Now that鈥檚 really dangerous鈥s I continue to point out. Not that my warnings are heeded. Instead I鈥檓 handed a crumpled shirt and told to get on with it.
I suppose a marriage built on sound foundations survives despite these petty annoyances. As grown-ups we have to rise above childish bickering.
Love, after all, means never having to say you鈥檙e sorry. Or, at least, never having to be the first to say it.
Because I said it first last time. Yes I did. Did, did, did, did.
Did infinity.
