Mummy tells all
Suitably emboldened by the response to my last blog, I'm ready to confess everything.
Life with my husband can be interesting. By which I mean frustrating. And hilarious. We've been together 15 years this September, and there are many moments which make me laugh when I remember them.
Like the time we went to Lake Garda and he unplugged the maid's vacuum cleaner as he dragged his case down the corridor, and then hid when she came out of a room to investigate what happened. When he went to Egypt, he gate crashed a wedding, was chased by men with guns and sent me a picture of himself being photo-bombed by a camel. Then there was the time we were putting together a log shed and our neighbour's borrowed drill was making funny noises. Cue the neighbour's voice reaching through our yew hedge to ask if it was perhaps on a hammer setting.
I do most of the cooking in the house, although he poaches the best eggs I've ever had. The first meal he made me is now known as salmon massacre, due to the way it was presented on the plate. It was a three course meal - salmon, followed by vegetables, and potatoes to finish. I came home from work at the end of last year to find him stirring my stock-pot full of something he called Autumn Broth. I've never had tuna in a soup before. And I don't think I will again.
As I've mentioned before, he's not great with animal species. We went to a donkey sanctuary once and I heard him shout "What the FUCK is that?" when a bedraggled turkey approached him.
He's full of his own isms too. Like "Why are they called ponytails, ponies don't have... oh" or "Isn't night dark?" We went for a drink early on in our relationship and he chose Summertime, returning to the table singing Will Smith lyrics. The song clicked on a little while later and it was actually Mungo Jerry. Bless.
He's not big on common sense, which tends to go hand-in-hand when you're so intelligent. He doesn't like swans because when he was a child he believed they could peck your arms off. My dad convinced him that seagulls don't have webbed feet. He wouldn't wear a hat while we basked in a punt, and ended up with sunstroke and was sick in my mum's clematis. A couple of Christmases ago, he insisted on travelling to New York with norovirus (that's the D&V bug, not a Scandinavian airline), so he could make good on a commitment he'd made. He put together a dolls-house for Mini-RM, and didn't consider the return on the hinges, so put the roof on backwards and wondered why it wouldn't close. He also used to queue for petrol because he didn't know pumps serve both sides of a car.
He's particular: he gets angry when sticky labels don't come off cleanly. I regularly find him rejigging the dishwasher or moving the washing around, because I've done it differently to how he likes it. He'll even re-park the car if I've not left the wheels straight enough.
He's strange: he wears layers ALL THE TIME because he's always cold. For nearly 10 months of the year he wears a trapper hat, indoors and out, only taking it off to sleep, shower or go out in public.
He's been commuting to and from London for years. We live in a village between two main stations, and although we have our own, trains don't always stop there. Which my husband has discovered the hard way. Delays further up the line on evening meant the train ran straight to Dover Priory, missing out our station and several more along the route. At the end of the line, almost an hour later, he was instructed by the guard to get off the train and wait for the one returning to London. Several minutes later he was allowed to get back on the same train for the return journey. He was not happy.
He's big on routine, so I know we have to factor an extra 15 minutes in to meet timings. I also know the exact order in which he gets ready for work, decompresses and settles down for bed.
Every window and door has to be checked, rigorously. He likes to lock and then really push against our front door with all his might to ensure the locks have engaged. Once they hadn't, and the last I saw of him was his feet as he flew back into the house.
This isn't a litany of complaints though, because there's a lot of good in him.
He's almost single-handedly removed woodchip from our walls - and there was a lot of woodchip to be removed. He's held my hand through two labours encouraging me to "PUSH" - like I wasn't already. I've seen him air guitar to Busted and heard him sing karaoke at his stag do. He brings me a glass of water to bed every night, even though he knows I probably won't drink it. He does all the tall jobs in our house, removes spiders and hates doing the bins. He is the one that investigates noises late at night when I'm scared and is surprisingly sentimental about a stuffed lion.
Life with my husband can be interesting. By which I mean frustrating. And hilarious. We've been together 15 years this September, and there are many moments which make me laugh when I remember them.
Like the time we went to Lake Garda and he unplugged the maid's vacuum cleaner as he dragged his case down the corridor, and then hid when she came out of a room to investigate what happened. When he went to Egypt, he gate crashed a wedding, was chased by men with guns and sent me a picture of himself being photo-bombed by a camel. Then there was the time we were putting together a log shed and our neighbour's borrowed drill was making funny noises. Cue the neighbour's voice reaching through our yew hedge to ask if it was perhaps on a hammer setting.
I do most of the cooking in the house, although he poaches the best eggs I've ever had. The first meal he made me is now known as salmon massacre, due to the way it was presented on the plate. It was a three course meal - salmon, followed by vegetables, and potatoes to finish. I came home from work at the end of last year to find him stirring my stock-pot full of something he called Autumn Broth. I've never had tuna in a soup before. And I don't think I will again.
As I've mentioned before, he's not great with animal species. We went to a donkey sanctuary once and I heard him shout "What the FUCK is that?" when a bedraggled turkey approached him.
He's full of his own isms too. Like "Why are they called ponytails, ponies don't have... oh" or "Isn't night dark?" We went for a drink early on in our relationship and he chose Summertime, returning to the table singing Will Smith lyrics. The song clicked on a little while later and it was actually Mungo Jerry. Bless.
He's not big on common sense, which tends to go hand-in-hand when you're so intelligent. He doesn't like swans because when he was a child he believed they could peck your arms off. My dad convinced him that seagulls don't have webbed feet. He wouldn't wear a hat while we basked in a punt, and ended up with sunstroke and was sick in my mum's clematis. A couple of Christmases ago, he insisted on travelling to New York with norovirus (that's the D&V bug, not a Scandinavian airline), so he could make good on a commitment he'd made. He put together a dolls-house for Mini-RM, and didn't consider the return on the hinges, so put the roof on backwards and wondered why it wouldn't close. He also used to queue for petrol because he didn't know pumps serve both sides of a car.
He's particular: he gets angry when sticky labels don't come off cleanly. I regularly find him rejigging the dishwasher or moving the washing around, because I've done it differently to how he likes it. He'll even re-park the car if I've not left the wheels straight enough.
He's strange: he wears layers ALL THE TIME because he's always cold. For nearly 10 months of the year he wears a trapper hat, indoors and out, only taking it off to sleep, shower or go out in public.
He's been commuting to and from London for years. We live in a village between two main stations, and although we have our own, trains don't always stop there. Which my husband has discovered the hard way. Delays further up the line on evening meant the train ran straight to Dover Priory, missing out our station and several more along the route. At the end of the line, almost an hour later, he was instructed by the guard to get off the train and wait for the one returning to London. Several minutes later he was allowed to get back on the same train for the return journey. He was not happy.
He's big on routine, so I know we have to factor an extra 15 minutes in to meet timings. I also know the exact order in which he gets ready for work, decompresses and settles down for bed.
Every window and door has to be checked, rigorously. He likes to lock and then really push against our front door with all his might to ensure the locks have engaged. Once they hadn't, and the last I saw of him was his feet as he flew back into the house.
This isn't a litany of complaints though, because there's a lot of good in him.
He's almost single-handedly removed woodchip from our walls - and there was a lot of woodchip to be removed. He's held my hand through two labours encouraging me to "PUSH" - like I wasn't already. I've seen him air guitar to Busted and heard him sing karaoke at his stag do. He brings me a glass of water to bed every night, even though he knows I probably won't drink it. He does all the tall jobs in our house, removes spiders and hates doing the bins. He is the one that investigates noises late at night when I'm scared and is surprisingly sentimental about a stuffed lion.
For my 40th he took me to Rome, with my family. And made me this.
💕💕💕
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Thanks for ranting!