The woman next door is leaving for work as I put out the rubbish, with the half-traumatised, half world-weary expression of someone dealt the latest in a series of catastrophic blows by an unforgiving God, but who has, fortunately, always expected the worst. The first time I saw her, it was almost enough - but only almost, mark you - to send me round with a list of good psychiatrists and some Class A drugs, until I realised it was how she always looked and that she was, underneath, really quite cheerful.
Francis, on the other hand, is far from cheerful underneath, but skims over the cracks with sand and cement crinkly smiles and bonhomie, though like a cowboy builder, never spreads it quite thick enough and tends to be a little flaky round the edges.
The insurance company has finally coughed up a cheque - 'sicked up' would be a better description given the tiny amount involved - and Francis, after much ringing of small ads and phone calls to people who are all called Dave - has gone to collect the replacement car which is just like the old one only slightly older, rustier and with a higher mileage.
"It's just not fair," he says, staring crossly at it. "Why am I driving round in a rustbucket like this when everyone else we know is in some flash new sports car?"
Prepared Speech 2,006 comes straight into my head. It compares Francis' marital status with that of his young, single, mortgage-free colleagues, taking a sideways swip at the lost decade when, while his career conscious contemporaries were all dressing for success, chasing their dreams and hunting down promotion after promotion, his sole aim was to do as little work as possible, finish the day as early as possible and thus maximise drinking, smoking and staying up late time.
These unkind and unwifely thoughts are there long enough for me to eye the meat cleaver and wonder just how long it would take me to assemble the lethal cocktail of drugs that seems to be so readily available to every would-be murderer.
And then, readers, I shut my mind with a snap, extemporise some ghastly grimace that has to do duty as a smile of loyal love, and get him a beer.
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16 comments:
Francis does not deserve you. And is very lucky to still breathe some days. I empathise.
Totally.
Crazy C: Come and warm your hands in front of the burning martyr - the blaze should keep you going for hours.
We all have "I wish" days like that. But you're a saint and should go order your Porsche now.
Dumdad: The great thing is that blogging can be a short cut to canonisation. There's no third party endorsement, thank God.
I'm on my way! btw - liked your comment at mine. Very valid. Responded to it there.
And if you can have a Porsche, can I get to drive it? Just once? Pwetty Pwease?
Crazycath: You're top of the list.
Beautifully expressed OM. Frankly I grew to love my rust bucket (most of the time), but I'd love a go in your Porsche!
Yes, well, you would think something like that, as would I under the same circumstances. He is a bit of a boy still, isn't he? Or a cowboy, as you said.
I wouldn't go for the meat cleaver, but for the drugs, they are much more humane and less messy.
The neighbor intrigues me now and I wonder if you are going to tell us some more about her. She seems like a character who needs her place in this continuing saga of sex, shock and situation comedy.
I do love thee, Omega Mum.
What a saint.
You know I have a theory that I should never nag and always drive home after a night out, (and I do stick to it,sigh!) perhaps we need a rebellion!
Well, unlike some of your commenters, I'm never entirely sure who is the saint or martyr here, and who isn't.
I always find myself sighing and thinking "Ah, poor Francis!" - but perhaps that's only because you are always so brave and funny about it all yourself?
Or it could be of course because I always have a sneaking fondness for an underdog...?
They say be careful what you dream though - and where Porsches are concerned, well I can tell you that my sister-in-law has one with a personalised number-plate, but hardly ever dares to drive it, for the sheer naked aggression it always seems to attract out on the roads.
Francis is safer in his old banger out there, he really is!
You are sooo bad! Loved it!
Hmm, Francis may never know how narrowly he escaped death. Don't try the thing with antifreeze. She got 30 years.
Ah...so YOU do the ghastly grimace/loyal love thing too! Glad I'm not alone.
Your neighbour sounds brilliant - I love grumpy looking people who turn out not to be. It's always such a nice surprise.
Mya x
Have you thought about subliminal messages? You could whisper in his ear at night when he's asleep. In fact, I may well give it a go myself.
ExpatKat: Next after Crazycath. Where are we going, then?
Sweet I: And I love you, too. Isn't it all beautiful?
fin the field: Glad you're back. Was worried. Am coming for visit.
IB: You have a very good instinct for the truth about our relationship.....I control the blog and thus all the perceptions. And thank God for that.
Soft in the head: Thank you so much. Glad you enjoyed it.
ElizabethM: Though she did also text a neighbour and say, 'I'm planning to kill my husband,' which I believe is what would be known as the fatal flaw in an otherwise cunning plan.
Mya: I got it written into the marriage ceremony. No point hanging about in my book.
expat mum: Tell me how it goes and exactly what you said.
There's a lot to be said for surface bonhomie, you know. Living with ambitious people can be wearing, at least in my limited experience. They tend to value the job/sports car/bragging power/size of wallet over and above their unfortunate partners. Mind you, who am I to talk? My poor husband has to put up with the fact that I am a) evil-tempered and b) not even rich enough to provide monetary solace. Don't even ask about the car we (are too scared to) drive.
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