There's No Place Like Home
Dude, I’ve turned into a very boring, very grumpy version of myself.
Despite that fact that the Husband and I will be in South Africa in less than two weeks our present conversations are spectacularly banal:
Husband: So what did you do today?
Me: Oh, the usual answered questions about absent wives, dead mothers and the location of a dog’s grave. You?
Husband: Not a bad day’s diving, found quite a good spot.
Me: Good. Listen, while I remember, you need to M.O.T the car and pay the tax.
Husband: I know.
Me: And I’m trying to buy travel insurance, but do you think If heaven forbid something happened and we get treatment in a private hospital instead of a government one they’ll pay? Blah, blah, insurance…blah, blah worry, blah, blah. And we need to sort out…blah, blah…book domestic flights…blah, blah…
I am coma inductively boring at present.
If living in monochrome wasn’t bad enough I’ve also become so cantankerous. My communication with Humphrey has dropped drastically to the shortest most monosyllabic answers I can muster (which is rare for the usually loquacious moi):
Humphrey: Where’s Moe?
Me: Harrington Manor. [Said in staccato.]
Humphrey: Where?
Me: Nursing Home.
Humphrey: When did she go there then, this morning? Last night?
Me: She’s been there awhile. She stays there all the time.
Humphrey: But when did she go?
Me: March.
Humphrey: [Eyes widen in disbelief. Checks date on newspaper] Oh, come on! Ha, Ha.
Me: [Silently continue dishwashing or some such domestic chore.]
Humphrey: Do you know where Moe is?
Me: Harrington. Manor. Nursing. Home.
Humphrey: When did she go there then?
Me: March.
Humphrey: [Eyes widen in discombobulation] Oh, come on. [Ha, Ha. Strange nervous laughter.]
I can’t go on. It’s like Chinese water torture; each question is like a drop of water to the forehead. The edges of my sanity are slipping away.
The only saving grace is that I bought myself a pair of bronze brogues (my new found discovery of online shopping, very dangerous). Amazing how a pair of shiny shoes jazz up the tedium of vacuuming. And now when Humphrey asks me for the ten millionth time where his wife is I click the heels together three times and mutter under my breath, ‘There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.’
The Husband's parting shot, "Girls don't wear brogues." His sartorial stock is very low.
Despite that fact that the Husband and I will be in South Africa in less than two weeks our present conversations are spectacularly banal:
Husband: So what did you do today?
Me: Oh, the usual answered questions about absent wives, dead mothers and the location of a dog’s grave. You?
Husband: Not a bad day’s diving, found quite a good spot.
Me: Good. Listen, while I remember, you need to M.O.T the car and pay the tax.
Husband: I know.
Me: And I’m trying to buy travel insurance, but do you think If heaven forbid something happened and we get treatment in a private hospital instead of a government one they’ll pay? Blah, blah, insurance…blah, blah worry, blah, blah. And we need to sort out…blah, blah…book domestic flights…blah, blah…
I am coma inductively boring at present.
If living in monochrome wasn’t bad enough I’ve also become so cantankerous. My communication with Humphrey has dropped drastically to the shortest most monosyllabic answers I can muster (which is rare for the usually loquacious moi):
Humphrey: Where’s Moe?
Me: Harrington Manor. [Said in staccato.]
Humphrey: Where?
Me: Nursing Home.
Humphrey: When did she go there then, this morning? Last night?
Me: She’s been there awhile. She stays there all the time.
Humphrey: But when did she go?
Me: March.
Humphrey: [Eyes widen in disbelief. Checks date on newspaper] Oh, come on! Ha, Ha.
Me: [Silently continue dishwashing or some such domestic chore.]
Humphrey: Do you know where Moe is?
Me: Harrington. Manor. Nursing. Home.
Humphrey: When did she go there then?
Me: March.
Humphrey: [Eyes widen in discombobulation] Oh, come on. [Ha, Ha. Strange nervous laughter.]
I can’t go on. It’s like Chinese water torture; each question is like a drop of water to the forehead. The edges of my sanity are slipping away.
The only saving grace is that I bought myself a pair of bronze brogues (my new found discovery of online shopping, very dangerous). Amazing how a pair of shiny shoes jazz up the tedium of vacuuming. And now when Humphrey asks me for the ten millionth time where his wife is I click the heels together three times and mutter under my breath, ‘There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.’
The Husband's parting shot, "Girls don't wear brogues." His sartorial stock is very low.
Comments
Post a Comment