I have a slight defect. Loath as I am to admit it, I have a blind spot. This blind spot manifests itself in a manner, which might not be all that unusual in men. I can find nothing in the house! ‘A place for everything and everything in its place’ is what I constantly preach.
Then I satisfy myself that it isn’t where it should be, before throwing what the sisters might term a little bit of a tantrum. At this stage I hear the dreaded ‘if it had teeth it would bite you’ and lo and behold, the missing item comes into focus at that precise moment.
I go to the hot press and all I want is one little jockey underpants. Can’t see one. Cast my eyes up and down shelves … nothing belonging to me there. What a lousy setup! Not even a bloody underpants to be found in a man’s own house. I consider putting back on the worn one, just for spite. Then I see the linen bag; ram one hand in after the other, bringing up nothing but fistfuls of bras … and the other items, Lads. Lose the head and empty all out on the floor. I must have called out at some stage, because, just as I see the layer of nicely folded underpants on the shelf in front of me, Mrs Youcantbeserious arrives on the scene. Bit of humble pie to be eaten …
Herself is inside watching ‘Coronation Street’. I take her in a cup of tea and decide to make myself a sandwich. Open fridge. ‘Nothing to make a sandwich with?’ I ask in nice even tone, with just a hint of surprise and disappointment. ‘Well, there is ham, cheese, tomatoes and the carcass of a chicken- is that not enough for you?’
Five minutes later I come in and sit down beside her; cup of tea, on its own, in my hand, hoping she will notice I am sulking! ‘Did you not make the sandwich?’ ‘Nothing to eat in the fridge except a jar of olives that were ‘best before’ 2018, I whimper. The break in Coronation Street arrives and ‘number one’ rises and heads for the kitchen. Then I hear that dreaded icy voice inviting me to ‘come here a minute’.
Lads, these are the moments in a marriage that are the bottom half of the “for better or worse” bit. When you see her standing, with the fridge door open, giving you the same look a caterpillar gets, and pointing at all the things she told you were in the fridge. You resolve to be more careful in future! The fact that anything worth eating was hidden behind the milk and orange juice counts for nothing.
I cannot find essentials in the bathroom. As you know, when you need toilet paper- you need toilet paper. How annoying it is to get out of the shower, dry yourself and then no feckin comb. You yell downstairs and nobody pretends to hear you. My hair dries like a furze bush and finally, just as the curses are being responded to, and she is on her way up the stairs, you see the comb in the bathroom, the one on the dressing room table and the one on the bedside locker.
‘My headache wasn’t too bad until I started looking for panadol, anadin or aspro’, I announced pitifully to wife, after she arrived in. Now I am taken gently by the hand and led to the medicine cabinet. She won’t leave it at that- oh no! Every tablet which might cure a headache has to be taken out and lined up on the table for me to have a good look at!
I cannot function in the mornings before I have my tea, toast and marmalade Boil the kettle, do the toast – and then the crisis. Don’t believe it … no marmalade AGAIN! I yell word of this catastrophe up the stairs – and don’t even wait for the sleepy reply. Out to car in huff; in to Michael Leonards. ‘Paper and pot of marmalade, please.’ Arrive home, make tea, lavish the toast with marmalade and then put jar in press – beside two other jars of the same!
Why, why, would anybody have nothing better to do, than moving someone else’s spectacles? I know where I left my phone – but it’s not there now? My car keys should always be hanging on their hook; the firelighters beside the stove; the phone book beside the phone and I can put my hand on anything I want – because I know, that is where I left it. I am a ‘place for everything and everything in its place’ sort of chappie. Unfortunately there seems to be a saboteur around this house…
I am going to relax by the fire now until bedtime and try to rid myself of the stress caused by reliving above. My SLIPPERS, – – – Who took my feckin slippers?”!
It’s bad to act the fool – but it’s worse when you’re not acting