“…is going to help me …win my own small battle of the sexes”
I’m happily married, as I’m sure you all know by know. Fourteen years, and she’s only ever tried to kill me the once. An attempt on my life which was, in retrospect, thoroughly deserved. After this rather unpleasant end-of-the-century upheaval, I’d like things to remain, on the whole, happy. But – something’s got to be said, and I’m going to say it here and now.
The House Rules are killing me.
Not the normal house rules, such as remembering not to tread dog poo into the carpet, and wiping the skids from the bowl. Those are, I’m sure you’ll agree, part and parcel of any domestic arrangement. It’s the other house rules. I’m not criticising the lovely Mrs Duck here, but you know the ones – the ones they make up as they go along.
When a new household rule comes into force (usually as a result of something heinous I’ve done), I no longer argue, I keep my head down and accept it, even if it utterly contradicts all the other house rules that have gone before. As our American friends say: “Suck it up.”
Rule 3,074: “Don’t wee in the toilet, you’ll stain it” – a bridge too far for my brittle sanity. The strict enforcement of rule 3,074 led to the return of one of the older house rules - Rule 37: “Don’t piss out of the window”, not to mention the drafting of new proposals regarding the proper use of wash basins, empty beer bottles and the watering of the garden.
I have decided to risk the wrath of my beloved and start writing these down.
No good will come of this.
“Don’t wipe your feet there - I’ve just hoovered the doormats.”
“Don’t mix your smelly laundry with mine – you’ll make it dirty.”
This is just the start...