No one is more surprised than me that I have one of these (a husband, not dinner). I was in relationship wilderness for an indeterminate period, during which I created and ‘lived with’ an imaginary boyfriend, for literary and convenience purposes. The benefits are legion, you’ll find out more if you stick with the Ladies of a Certain Age Assassins Club. However the real thing (husband) is furrier (v.v.v. furry), warmer, funnier and will always make the tissue run after marital horizontal dancing without complaint.
Somehow that brings to mind Morris Men – and I don’t like that image. Not the horizontal dancing, PLEEEEZE – no. Men wearing funny outfits, flowery hats and bashing sticks together. Well that’s my fantasy, it is what it is. At least there’s usually beer (or cake!) within easy reach. The only recourse with so many white, knee-high socks and beards on display.
So, while my husband is stuffing supplies of cake into the bedside cabinet drawer (that’s a hint by the way, go to it….) I’ve decided that it’s appropriate to post a blog after homemade meatballs and spaghetti and three glasses of wine. Just read that sentence and realised that I was wrong. Goodnight is the only way of coning off a comedy cul-de-sac.