14th March 2013
How do you start a diary I wonder? I’ve never kept one before, not a serious journal at least. I’ve often thought about keeping one but I’d be mortified if Gary the Grump found it and read my innermost thoughts.
He thinks he knows everything about me just because we’ve been married for eighteen years, but in truth he knows very little and understands even less. Oh, he can find his way around the intimate parts of my body and he knows to keep well clear if I’m in one of my moods, but he doesn’t have a clue who the real me is. I hate the way he calls them, my moods, as though he’s always full of the joys of Spring. At least I have the excuse of an excruciating period or the beginnings of a migraine when I snap. He gets unbearably shitty if his precious football team loses, and God help us all if England aren’t doing very well at the cricket.
He thinks he knows which TV shows I like, (the ones I get to see when there isn’t a conflict with the sports channel,) but he doesn’t have a clue what I Sky Plus and watch when he’s at the pub or nursing a Sunday morning hangover in bed. He has no idea what I dream about, what I think, or what I do all day.
He’s convinced that I vote Labour because he does, but I’ve never voted for them once. I actually voted for the Rubber Chicken party at one election and I’d have been quite happy had they got in.
Gary still hasn’t worked out that if I nod my head when he’s screaming at the TV during Question Time it doesn’t mean I agree with him. It’s actually far more likely to mean that I agree with the politician who almost caused him to have a seizure. Gary has always been arrogant like that. He assumes that he wears the trousers in our house but in actual fact the decision-making process is shared equally. He decides what we should do about Libya, oil prices and the EU and I make the everyday decisions, like, what we buy, where we buy it, how much we put away for a rainy day, who we buy our gas from, who’s offering the best mortgage deal … It works out perfectly really.