Here’s the scene.
It’s about half eleven a few nights ago. I’m curled up in bed contentedly breathing in the scent of my wife’s soft, dark curls (and they say romance is dead). Suddenly there’s a strange grumbling noise followed by an alarming ‘thump’ from the general direction of the kitchen downstairs.
The wife tenses, and mutters uncertainly ‘What was that?’. ‘No idea’, says I sleepily. ‘Go and have a look’, she whispers, and ready to play the poor little woman card when it suits her, adds ‘it might be a burglar’.
‘Don’t be bloody daft’, I mumble, and get an elbow in the side for my trouble. Now I’m the first to admit to being a very lucky man. The wife’s pushing sixty, but still bears an uncanny resemblance to the actress Rachael Weisz, throw in a soft Edinburgh burr and sexy specs. But at times she can drive me to bloody distraction.
‘Alright’, says I. ‘I’ll go and risk my life. You just stay there warm and cosy’, and muttering and mumping, I go downstairs. Going into the kitchen, I find the fridge/freezer wheezing and groaning like a set of asthmatic bagpipes. Bastard.
Going back up, I inform m’lady that it looks as though the fridge is buggered. ‘What are you going to do?’ she enquires helplessly. ‘What do you mean, what am I going to do?’ I snap. ‘What do you expect me to do? Dial 99 fucking 9 and get them to send the paramedics with a bastard defibrillator? It’s nearly midnight, you daft sod’. ‘Huh’, she harrumphs, ‘the older you get the worse your language becomes’, and rolls over in frosty silence. Luckily I well know how to get round her by now, and a couple of quick tickles soon have her giggling like an overgrown schoolgirl. Normal service is resumed (at least until morning).
Fast forward to about half seven.
I find myself shaken awake to be told ‘there’s a puddle on the kitchen floor’. ‘Shit’ says I groggily, ‘is there any tea in?’. Cursing, I stagger into the kitchen to find that our now incontinent appliance is leaking like, well, the proverbial fucked fridge, and a pool of something vaguely unpleasant looking has indeed gathered. ‘I would’ve cleaned it up’, advises the wife, ‘but it looked funny and I thought you should see it. Anyway, you can do it now you’re up’. For a brief moment I think about trying to play the ‘I’m a fragile old age pensioner’ card, but fuck, it cuts no ice and I know when I’m beat.
Anyway, I barely get time to have a shower and grab a bite before I’m marched off to John Lewis’s to look at new fridges. Here I’m forced to endure an eye glazing indoctrination on the merits of various appliances from a very camp young man who, it turns out, is from Iran of all places. About an hour and a half later, I stagger out craving caffeine, and with a wallet lighter to the tune of 460 notes, not to mention the cost of a freezer full of now useless food. To add insult to injury, there are four days of inconvenience to put up with until the new bastard gets delivered. What a cunt.
Friday morning.
Well it’s finally here and installed, and is purring away like a kitten. There’s just one little sting in the tail. I ricked my back getting the other fucker out the kitchen door so that the council can cart it off to the knacker’s yard. Oh well, at least the missus is mollified and happy, and I’m no longer getting earache from her going on about it. I reckon if I play my cards right, there’ll even be a bit of soldier’s comfort going later . There’ll be a pain barrier, but I’ll struggle manfully to overcome it. I reckon that I’m due a bit of sympathy and consolation for my efforts.
Nominated by Ron Knee
Andrew Scott is a bit of a cunt, isn’t he?
