So after the fourth lecture about how ‘we aren’t drinking through the week,’ and ‘we need to cut down what we eat,’ and ‘I’ve got to get into training for The Big One,’ before his epic (honestly, a true use of the word, Orcs, Sword of Aragon and everything) climb of the trampoline of the merge (or something) off he went to the Lakes to train.
From what I can gather, this would be a bit like practicing your scales on a recorder before conducting the New York Philharmonic to televised millions.
His body was a temple, and I had to be some sort of anti-room where they kept the musty smelling hymn books.
So off he went.
Being a good wife, I zipped ‘scene of crime’ tape around the fridge and vowed to support him in spirit as I worked on the PC fuelled only with granola, peanuts and Diet Coke.
Until, that is, I got the call. At 9.30pm.
I remember it like it was yesterday. He said: ‘Helloooo, sho, howssssh you und shhh pushhhy catsh.’
In the background could be heard clinking and beery laughs.
As he’d called on the mobile, I edged along the knife edge precipice toward the fridge (avoiding cat bowls and ironing board) to fling it open and snatch a bottle of Sauv Blanc.
‘You’re pissed.’ I observed as I unscrewed the top with one hand.
‘I reshhhcued some bloke I found on a mountain shooo we had to cum to the phub. I’ve had five pints and a glaassssh of red wine.’
My husband. Johnny France. Alcohol tolerance of a fruit-fly, in hard core training for the trampoline of the merge (what IS it called) in Sweden (or somewhere hillier), is still chunnering as I reach down a large glass and pour.
By the way he did that big climb – apparently not in Sweden – nearer Toblerone County I think. Anyway the pictures made my palms sweat. Not bad for a man whose training mainly centred on getting shit-faced in a pub in the Lake district.