On finding oneself the King of the Gits
"I vowed I'd never write about home life" - Number 12,564 in a series.
It's no good. We've been married for nearly eighteen years now, and I've got to say something.
"Do you know how long we've been married?"
"Yes. Nearly eighteen years now."
"And do you know what REALLY winds me up about you?"
"I have no idea."
So I explain.
It's that moment on any given evening. I get into bed, say 'goodnight', turn the light off and shut my eyes, waiting for the Sandman to come down and punch my lights out and drag me to his realm of dream, where I am Space Commander, Wembley Super-sub and the main protagonist in a "Dear Fiesta…" letter, rolled into one.
It is that exact moment that my charming, fragrant wife decides to have a conversation. About the neighbours In the dark. Without fail. For eighteen years.
The end result is that I'm so tense that the one-sided conversation may re-start at any moment, I am quite unable to surrender to the grasp of sweet, sweet sleep.
"Well," she says, "we never get to speak during the evenings."
I draw the jury's attention to the period between 7pm – 9pm where Emmerdale, EastEnders and a double dose of Coronation Street hold sway. I am – I say – more than happy to converse between those hours on any subject she sees fit.
"Do you want to know what annoys me about you?"
"What?" I ask, with a terrible sense for foreboding.
"I've written a few down."
She reveals a notepad the size and shape of the central London phone directory. It is rather full.
Snores – Is a git – Is an enormous git – snores – disobeys house rules re: toilet seat – Displays record gittishness – Smelly slippers - King of the Gits
After several minutes, I manage a reply: "King of the Gits? WIN!"
"I'm in love with an idiot."
"What's his name?"
The War of the Lifted Toilet Seat and Poor Foot Cleanliness: IT HAS BEGUN.