An hour ago the husband casually drops it into conversation that he’s watching the football tonight.
You’d have thought he’d just told me he was leaving me for my best mate (I don’t have one, but that’s beside the point). I was writing a shopping list at the time and before I knew it the pen had flown out of my hand, hit the fridge, smashed into a gazillion pieces and I stormed out of the room and started ragging the hoover around like a maniac.
Then I went back for more. ‘So what you’re saying is this. I’m sorry darling that you’ve had the sh!ttest week off with the beasts, that I’ve barely seen you because I’ve spent every spare minute of every evening exam marking, but I’m spending the whole of Friday and Saturday night watching the football’
I don’t know if it was the high octave or heavy sarcasm that gave it away but he cleverly – he’s very astute is Mr C – exited the scene to go and buy bin bags.
I’m probably being unreasonable, at least in the manifestation of my emotions, but I don’t feel unjustified in saying it’s just not on. I was really looking forward to chilling on the sofa with a glass of wine and a film from Skystore and boring him with tales of how horrid his offspring are.
But noooo, my grand plans are not to be because, ‘it’s the opening ceremony and it’s only every four years’. Oh well that’s all right then. Nevermind, that those four years are broken up with the World Cup, the Olympics and lets not forget Wimbledon, the Ashes and the football season.
I know I’m being a moaning Martha and should just hole up in my room, drink a bottle of wine and start Sons of Anarchy but I’m miffed that he assumes the TV is his, that his preferences take precedent and that frankly he would rather watch men running around a pitch than spend the evening with me. (Who would want to spend an evening with you you whinging bag, I know you’re thinking).
So, I have no option but to shut up and put up. I could leave or even poison his beer and dispose of his body in the bin bags he so helpfully bought earlier but that all seems a little drastic.
Instead, I might go down and apologise for my little outburst earlier. I might even feign interest in the opening ceremony for about five minutes. But I am definitely opening that bottle of wine and plan on blog hopping from my cosy bed all night, interspersed with googling bearded tattooed men.
And I should probably dry my hair from the torrential downpour me plus four kids got caught in earlier and also kiss the sproggles in their sleep because I did call them hell-beasts on social media and feel a little bit bad about it.
(Google, rubbing salt in the wounds, when I turned to my laptop for solace)