Many husbands – you may have noticed this yourself – can be irritating.
I’d like to say that I’m the exception. But you know me of old.
And my wife proof-reads these columns…
She’s long found me… ‘Challenging’ is a good word to use.
This week it was the turn of our old friend, the kitchen cupboard door.
“The cupboard door has come off again.”
“OK, I’m just finishing my book. I’m at 86,000 words.”
“The [word deleted] cupboard door has been hanging off since you were at 20,000 [oops, deleted again] words.”
In the old days I used to reason with her. Point out that Shakespeare never broke off from Hamlet to reach for his Phillips screwdriver. Surprisingly, that never went well…
Still, we’re getting a new kitchen as soon as you-know-what ends. I expect the cupboard doors will fix themselves.
But what really has her reaching for the nearest sharp/heavy/pointed (preferably all three) object is when I start speaking in tongues. Specifically Welsh, Scottish or the dialect she cheerfully refers to as ‘Yorkshire idiot.’
I think the children could be to blame. Alternatively it could be demonic possession.
We trundled off in the car on holiday. A cottage in the Borders. What could be more lovely? We’d stop for something to eat, we’d stop for someone to vomit and eventually we’d see a sign that said Scotland.
At which point I morphed into the lovechild of William Wallace and Rab C Nesbitt.
“Aye, we’ll soon be at the wee cottage. Aye, I’ll chase a haggis roond the garden the noo…”
The children loved it. My beloved was less impressed – especially if we’d been through the Tyne Tunnel and she’d spent half an hour sitting next to a deranged member of the Toon Army…
Wales? “I’m sorry, children, your father thinks he’s Ivor the Engine.”
Cornwall? No. There are certain parts of the country we never visited. Come to think of it I’ve never been to Liverpool or Brum with my wife either…
But there you are. No-one is going anywhere at the moment, so the accents round on Whose Line is it Anyway is a thing of the past.
The merest mention of West Yorkshire and I’m off. “Does tha’ want a cup o’ tea, our lass? ’Appen tha’ll be wanting t’biscuits for a spot o’ dunkin…”
This would be bad enough – but it’s combined with my advancing years. I can’t now get off the sofa/bend down/go upstairs without making a noise.
Beverley was knitting. “I need something to help me relax.” Something that involved teeny-tiny knitting needles. “Don’t worry, they’ll still go up your nose,” she said encouragingly.
But what you don’t want when your trying to relax is a Yorkshire idiot giving a running commentary as he turns the fire on…
“Tha’ wants t’fire on? By gum n’ it’s a long way down, tha’ knows.”
“Would you just – ” [go away is a loose translation] “ – with your Yorkshire grunts.”
“What did you just say?”
“I don’t know. I told you to be quiet.”
“No, the exact words.”
“Go away with your Yorkshire grunts.”
Well, not quite the exact phrase, but close enough.
And what a magnificent phrase as well. The Yorkshire Grunts.
It is – very obviously – a euphemism. Halfway through January and it is already Euphemism of the Year.
“Don’t eat too many eggs,” my Gran was fond of saying. “They’ll bind you. You don’t want to be costive.”
And that’s clearly what ‘the Yorkshire Grunts’ is a euphemism for. My wife – unwittingly – has launched a new phrase into the English language.
“Where’s Dad? Haven’t seen him for a while.”
“Aye well. ’Appen he’s locked away in t’privvy. Not enough fruit and veg. Bad case o’ t’Yorkshire Grunts…’
“Fabulous! Had me gripped from start to finish. Reminded me of Mark Billingham’s detective, Tom Thorne. Excellent, can’t wait to read the second book.”
Salt in the Wounds is available on Amazon. The follow up, The River Runs Deep, can be pre-ordered now and will be published on January 31st