I received a generous dollop of Cold Tongue Pie the other night.
I broke a dinner plate. But it wasn’t for that. Nope, it was because I broke the wrong dinner plate…
“I’ve broken a plate,” I confessed, already reaching for the hair-shirt.
My wife went into the kitchen. “You’ve broken the wrong one,” she said accusingly. “Why didn’t you break the one with the chip in it?”
Married life, eh? You think you’ve finally mastered it after 27 years and then you break the wrong plate…
But I have bigger fish to fry. Or should that be, bigger crayfish?
“How are you doing?” we asked Alex two weeks into lockdown.
“I’m good,” he said. “My flatmates have gone home and I’m locked down with Lizzie.”
Yep, two weeks into lockdown and our youngest son was marooned inside his flat with his new, Australian girlfriend.
“And what’s Lizzie doing?” we asked. “Writing an essay?”
“No,” he said. “She’s cooking a crayfish stir-fry.”
Well, you know what I’m going to write next. Lizzie is coming to visit. Tomorrow.
Which might explain my I have a looming appointment with the oven cleaner. And a screwdriver.
My wife has decided the house needs cleaning. And fixing. I was due to sort the shower out as well – or paddling pool as it was rapidly becoming – but she lost patience and did it herself.
But does it really need doing?
Will Lizzie even notice?
When I was a young lad – still at university – I went to stay at my girlfriend’s. I never once looked at the top of the cooker. There could have been a Komodo Dragon living in the kitchen and I wouldn’t have noticed.
The shower? Yep, I definitely had some thoughts about the shower, but they had nothing to do with how quickly the water was draining…
Bluntly, I only had one thing on my mind.
When were her damn parents going out for a walk?
Come on, the sun’s shining, you live five minutes from the beach. And go to the pub on the way back…
No chance. Christine’s father very pointedly sat in his armchair and turned the TV on. “That’s me settled in for the night,” he declared.
Why not say what you mean? ‘There’ll be no hanky-panky under my roof, young man. And don’t try anything in the night either. Heard you were coming. Installed some special creaky floorboards…’
I now realise there was a sub-plot. He was – I can barely write the words – from the South. He didn’t want to risk any Yorkshire blood in his daughter’s home counties pedigree.
Anyway, a few million gallons of water have flowed under the bridge, and here I am now cast in the role of grumpy old dad settling in for the night.
Except I’m not. I’ve already told my wife that we’ll be doing the decent thing and going for a tactical walk on the beach. Or more likely Beverley will be going to visit her mother and I’ll go and hide in the office.
But first things first. The oven…
And what do you know? She’s already done it. The top of the oven is immaculate. Glistening as the sun peaks in through the kitchen window.
“You’ve done it,” I said as Beverley came out of the shower. “I said I’d do it.”
“I just wanted it done and off the list,” she said.
But like with Christine’s dad and his creaky floorboards, there was a sub-plot. ‘I just wanted it done properly.’
When I clean something there are three stages. ‘Call that clean?’ Clean-ish and what I fondly imagine is ‘really clean.’
And then there’s cleaned by my wife…