Fight, Club

31 Jan

I told you shopping was a bad idea: the Hub and I spent our afternoon in Stockport squabbling. We squabbled in his bank – why could we not draw out the money in the warm inside, where muggers were less likely to steal it from my shivering fingers? And why did I not top up my phone through the ATM while we were there? What is this irrational mistrust I have of technology? (Pity he didn’t ask me that ten minutes ago, just after I lost the first and much funnier draft of this post*) My bank – why did he have to wait so long in the queue for me while I went to three shops in an effort to find one with a working machine to top me up by a fiver when I could have done it at his bank? We squabbled in the post office when I suddenly realised that he had not wrapped Tory Boy’s book like I asked him to before we left the house and he claimed that he hadn’t known I wanted it so urgently because I had never said so and I countered with the adult response that it was about time he learned to read my mind then; raspberry. In the £ shop we had reached glaring point and in the street outside, with our sotto voce argument now screechy-screechy, we decided to kiss and make up before we reached the point of exchanging blows with the bargain toothpaste we were carrying. After twenty-eight years together, we are pretty good at conflict resolution; especially because 1) I know I’m right – like the old joke has it, a husband’s place is always in the wrong; and 2) I wasn’t sure my toothpaste would get the first blow in.**

He will be nice to me tomorrow: I’m having a wisdom tooth out. Though he can’t help wondering how I’ll manage without it. I was not sure if he was referring to my mind or my eating habits when he said that, so I decided it would be safer not to ask. I’m not looking forward to the day – going to the dentist is as bad as going to the hairdresser’s: a stranger has your looks in their hands and charges a month’s wages for the privilege, no matter the out come. All you can do is shiver, sweat and pray that it won’t be too awful. I actually love having my hair done; I just don’t like going to salons for it. What I really need is a personal hairdresser that I’ve known for years to be at my beck and call: another reason to win the lottery.

Fortunately, I trust the dentist who will be butchering me: it is Mr Lee, who I’m going to marry when the Hub is castaway for four years, if you remember.*** Mr Lee won’t remember because I haven’t yet told him the fate that awaits him. Poor Mr L: he thought he had escaped me when he left his practice to go into dental surgery. The shock on his face when he sees me tomorrow will do more to relax my nerves than all the drugs he’s going to be pumping in.

I’m off now to stuff my gullet, because I won’t be able to eat for a few hours tomorrow and I want to be prepared. Still, it could be worse: I could be getting a haircut.

*the grass is always greener and the jokes are always funnier on the other side; have you noticed?

**the text is always greyer in parts where my techneptitude triumphs; have you noticed?

***new readers might like to type ‘Tom Hanks’, ‘Demi Moore’ and ‘Dentist’ into the Search box on the right for clarification

I welcome your comments but be warned: I'm menopausal and as likely to snarl as smile. Wine or Maltesers are an acceptable bribe; or a compliment about my youthful looks and cheery disposition will do in a pinch.

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