When I were nowt but a nipper we ’ad t’four minute warning.
The Cold War. Four minutes. The time you had before a Russian missile landed on your head. “Only four minutes left. What would you do?” we cheerfully asked each other as teenagers.
“Ask Angela Miller out again,” I dolefully replied. “Couldn’t say she was washing her hair, could she…”
Anyway I’m married now. Whoops, insert ‘happily…’
And the Cold War is long gone.
I still need a four minute warning. A ten minute warning if I’m honest. And if I don’t get it then you can forget the Cold War. It’s the Cold Tongue War…
The ten minute warning is integral to married life. It’s the glue that binds man and wife. If I remember correctly, part of the service…
Wilt thou love him, comfort him, honour and protect him and phone him ten minutes before thou art due to come home?
‘I’m going out,’ your lovely wife declares.
‘OK, when will you be back?’
‘Well, it’s Saturday afternoon, so it’s going to be busy. A couple of hours?’
‘OK, give me a ring when you’re on the way back.’
‘While I’m out… Can you tidy the kitchen? And put the rubbish out?’
‘Of course, sweetheart.’
But not now. Football’s on the telly and the big race is off in half an hour. Two hours of peace. Is it too early to have a beer? I don’t think so…
Not quite two hours, of course.
‘I’m just leaving town, darling. I’ll be home in ten minutes.’
Ker-pow! as old Batman used to say. Ten minutes to tidy the kitchen, get rid of the rubbish – and as she’s walking through the door the kettle’s boiling.
‘I knew you’d want a cup of tea, darling.’
‘Oh, darling. You are wonderful. I’m so lucky.’
Well, so much for the theory. Last Sunday was the practice. The mother-in-law’s birthday. She was coming round for lunch.
“I’ll be about an hour. Make sure you set the table and get a bottle of white wine.”
“Don’t – DON’T – still be sitting there writing when I come back.”
As if I would be. Twenty-seven years of married bliss? Ten minutes is all I need.
Assuming I get a ten minute warning.
You can imagine the rest…
Then there’s this other thing your wife does. She asks you to peel the potatoes. Now, if you’re newly married you’ll just think, ‘Oh, she wants me to peel the potatoes.’
Older, wiser heads recognise a hand grenade lobbed casually into the lounge.
‘Can you give me a hand? Come and peel the potatoes?’
‘Yep, sure. I’ll be there in a minute.’
Now, not for one second do you mean you’ll be there in sixty seconds. No, sir. What you mean is, ‘Yes, I’ll come and peel the spuds but I know you don’t need it doing right now, so I’ll just watch the end of the footy.’
There’s absolutely no intention NOT to do the spuds. Just a calm, rational ordering of priorities.
And there you are. You’ve finished – regrettably – your craft IPA, the ref’s blown the final whistle, and now it’s time to peel the potatoes. You walk through to the kitchen.
‘Right, I’m here. Ready to peel the spuds.’
‘I’ve done them.’
‘What do you mean you’ve done them?’
‘I got fed up of waiting.’
‘But you don’t need them now.’
‘No, but I needed the space.’
So you slink away feeling guilty. You were definitely going to help. Definitely. No question.
But it’s too late. Your wife’s placed another tick. No, not in the ‘peeled potato’ column.
“Well plotted. Great characters. Set in a place I love. What’s not to love about Salt in the Wounds? Looking forward to hearing more about Michael Brady.”
The River Runs Deep – the next book in the Michael Brady series – is now available to pre-order on Amazon.