Leaving the party on Sunday night, Andrew stopped to ask me if I wanted the shopping bag he'd brought his beers in. I was confused by the question (why the fuck would I want to chase down the bag?) and he was confused by my confusion. He's not sure of the (notional) etiquette I apply to the running of our little household. For all he knew, it might have been my absolute favourite of all our Tesco bags. He didn't want to upset me by leaving it behind."Is this what marriage is?" asked our hostess, laughing at us. "No," I said "marriage is when he stopped at the side of the road as we were walking over here to pull out all of my grey hairs." "Yeah" my sister piped up "he was grooming her like a monkey".
We ambled out the door, three chimps hooting for home. Once we'd rounded the corner, Andrew and I bumburped out bubbly little farts, relieved to be free of polite company. I never thought I'd ever fart in front of anyone ever (though obviously my sister does not count in this scenario). "Oh Pussycat!" Andrew says whenever I do, and he feigns embarrassment on my behalf before topping my efforts with as eye-watering a fart as he can muster. So's I'll feel better. That's what marriage is.
We ambled out the door, three chimps hooting for home. Once we'd rounded the corner, Andrew and I bumburped out bubbly little farts, relieved to be free of polite company. I never thought I'd ever fart in front of anyone ever (though obviously my sister does not count in this scenario). "Oh Pussycat!" Andrew says whenever I do, and he feigns embarrassment on my behalf before topping my efforts with as eye-watering a fart as he can muster. So's I'll feel better. That's what marriage is.
