Monday Feeling: The Revenge or: A Husband Has His Say

It's an age thing... sorry, mum

It's an age thing... sorry, mum - Credit: Archant

I am writing this at the behest of my husband.

In all the years I have been writing this column it is the first time he has been moved to make such a request.

He wishes me to explain that I am not his fault. And indeed, I am not.

It is no failing of his that I walk straight past people I know or worse, smile, say hello and walk away.

He was in Waitrose with the shopping list. I had just nipped to the store next door to buy something and I said I’d come and find him. There was no way he was going to left alone in charge of a trolley and a list because I know what he’s like. He only ever buys what’s on the list.

I know. Shocking, isn’t it.

Do his antennae not twitch like mine at the word “new” on a product? Apparently not. Must be a man thing.

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Anyway, I said I’d catch up with him and this is exactly what I attempted to do but somehow it all went wrong. He had only been in the store for a minute or two when he met Alison and Eddie, a couple of friends that go way back to the days of am-dram juvenile leads, over by the celery. They stopped for a chat and he told them I would along in a minute.

He saw me enter by the flowers and newspapers and said: “Oh look, here comes Lynne,” whereupon, I walked straight past him and headed off down the cheese aisle.

“I don’t know what they must have thought,” he said gloomily when we eventually converged at the baguettes (it’s okay, they can’t touch you for it).

A few days later I did something similar to our friend, Celia, also in Waitrose, only this time I think it was by the tissues. She smiled and said: “Hello, Lynne.” I smiled back and sailed past on my way to the coffee and tea.

When I saw her at the theatre a couple of days later, I was remorseful.

I can only imagine there is something in my brain that zones out when I am focused on buying things. And so I would like to offer a blanket apology to all the people I know and love (including my mum) whom I have cut dead in the street or in a shop. I think I might get myself micro-chipped or tagged so I can be more easily tracked if I can be pinned down to a grid reference.

Meanwhile, dear husband, I suspect my condition is beyond remedy although, to be fair, you have an astonishing ability to recognise, assimilate and put a name to a face. How do you do it?

How does he do it?

I suppose it’s fair to let him air his grievances. It can’t be easy being married to me... I wouldn’t like it. For a start, I’d never get anyone to make me a cup of tea.

I’m not sure I could put up with my snoring, either. The bedtime ritual now includes the following exchange:

“You’re snoring, Lynne, darling.” Spoken with affection.


(Two minutes pass.)

“You’re still snoring Lynne.” Not so much affection.

“Sorry.” I adjust my pillow

(Five minutes pass)

“Lynne, You’re snoring.” A little bit terse.


I turn through 45 degrees but by now I’m awake and, selflessly and nobly, decide to stay awake until he’s gone to sleep. I wait for the rhythm of his breathing to indicate slumber and then I put my brain in neutral (it’s a manual transmission) and try to pick up my dream from where I was so rudely interrupted.

I think it was where Robert Downey Jr had just asked me if I was single...

Then he starts snoring. My husband, not Robert... or Bob as he’s asked me to call him.

I have noticed my body has become very noisy, recently. It never used to make all these noises... and I don’t even have a dog to blame them on. What with the snoring and burping and tummy rumbling and knee-scrunching and the other noise; the one we don’t talk about in polite company, I have become a one-woman band. I could simultaneously beat-box and sing a melody line. I could probably make a tidy sum busking outside Marks & Spencer.

Anyway, what if I am getting a bit windy in my middle years? It is surely an integral part of life’s rich tapestry...

... yes, all right, if it happens again I’ll go outside.

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