The wife, who I call Boadicea behind her back, because to say that to her face would be a recognised form of suicide, is not someone to mess with. Alright, that’s nonsense because I’ve already said it, but then she doesn’t read Blogs, “Useless warbling” as she calls them and who am I to argue. We get along on the “Anything you say dear” basis and I’m happy enough as long as I don’t look too deeply at the issue, but depths are not my thing. “Keep it light” is my mantra and I cling to that profundity.
Anyway, I’m rambling, because that is my thing, and a characteristic “Her indoors” finds more than irritating so, without further ado, let’s get straight to the point avoiding unnecessary dithering. We met at university when I was one of the “Crowd;” adequate looking; well brought up to the point of mundanity, and with a natural unassuming manner which a Pigeon could walk over without unsettling itself. My only shine-out quality was in the brain department which, for some reason, could process information quickly which is why I am now a senior statistician at the Department of Transport.
“No more rambling please” I hear you cry, so with the briefest nod of apology I will continue my story. Boadicea, otherwise known as Caroline, was at the same University, at the same time, and must have spotted something useful in me, otherwise she never would have come up to me and said, “You’re going to take me to dinner” and behind the demanding and harsh tone there was an undercurrent of shyness which I found attractive and so I said “Yes.” By the way, socially speaking, never try to save anyone; you’ll drown in the attempt, but just at that moment there was that vulnerability in her and it drew me in. She doesn’t do weakness, so it sort of sticks in the memory.
In terms of the physicals I’m on the diffident side of nervous. I prefer my pretty girls to be on the other side of the television screen and at a safe distance but close up I find them unsettling. Don’t worry, of course because Caroline was not entirely “Model” material but, as with all girls around the twenty-two age mark, she could be attractive for the evening if she put her mind to it, and she had put her mind to it on my account. An effort which I would spend the rest of my life paying for: I hope that doesn’t sound too harsh.
Anyway, we’ve had the meal and it’s time to leave but she’s not really going and her feet are shuffling a bit, but not in a way which moves the rest of the body either forward or backward and even Mr Plod, namely me, picks up from the mixture of nervousness and exasperation in her eye that any gentleman worth his salt would do the decent thing, lean forward and kiss her.
That’s what I did in the end, and she relaxed a bit and kissed me back in a slightly animal way that was almost victorious. Well, if you knew Caroline, you’d know that we moved swiftly to a clinching session of horizontal gymnastics before she launched into her wedding planning speech as we lay in bed together.
I mean, it can’t be all bad because we’ve been married for twenty-seven years and she seems happy enough in the “You’re useless, whatever did I see in you” kind of way, but somehow I don’t mind you know. Sometimes, that vulnerability in her manner returns and her hand might move over to mine on the sofa while we watch the television, and you sort of know she’s seeking for reassurance. That’s so lovable don’t you find? I think so anyway.