She really over-reacts whenever she catches me wearing her underwear.
Margret's four-hundred-and-fifty-second most annoying habit is to stealthily turn off the central heating (then light the gas fire in the room she's in, natch.). I'll suddenly notice that, sitting typing at the keyboard, I can see my own breath while from the bedroom one of the kids will call out "Papa, I can't feel my legs." And I'll shiver down the stairs to find the central heating set to 'Summer/Hypothermia/Cryogenic Suspension, and Margret in the living room watching the TV in a door frame warping furnace.
Fucking LOL.Now, the thing is, if you're an English male, what you do when you leave home is go to the shop nearest to your new place, buy a Pot Noodle (Chicken and Mushroom), feast on its delights slumped on the sofa in front of the TV, swill out the plastic carton it came in, then use this carton for all your subsequent meals until you get married. There's a beauty of economy to it. Thus, when I cook a meal for four, the aftermath left in the sink as I carry the gently steaming plates to the table is a single saucepan and, if I've pulled out the all stops to dazzle visiting Royalty, perhaps a spoon. Margret cannot make cheese on toast without using every single saucepan, wok, tureen and colander in the house. Post-Margret-meal, I walk into the kitchen to discover a sink teetering with utensils holding off gravity only by the sly use of a sptzle glue.
"How the hell did you use all these to make that?"
"It's just what I needed."
"What? Where did the lawnmower fit in?"
'Jonathan?'
'Yes?'
'Don't do stuff like that. Your hair looks stupid.'
I see his eyes flick, for the briefest moment, up to my hair. I'm dead in the water and we both know it.
'I like it,' he says.
'Oh, you like it, do you?' I laugh. 'So, it doesn't matter that everyone else in the world thinks it looks stupid? You like it? That's... Um, that's really good, actually. That's good.' I ruffle, what's left, of his hair.
Margret walks in behind me. Quickly, I furrow my eyebrows and point a sharp finger at Jonathan.
'So? Is that clear?'
'Yes,' he replies.
Immediately I returned home I took the money from the MoS to a local charity, outside which I'd arranged a meeting with a man from whom I bought a bin liner full of crack and four prostitutes. Hurrah!
Our Telephone Number
F'ing LOL!Oh I've seen this - he gets killed at the end
'My instructor says my emotions are in my calves.'
I, naturally, replied:
'Then your calves are leaking. Quite badly.'
But it turns out that this wasn't just some location identifying exercise. No, the intention was actually to free the emotions locked in Margret's legs. Hell fire! I say that they were probably imprisoned in there by chanting priests using arcane magic, and for a very good reason. Now some fool is trying to free them - they are meddling with forces they simply don't understand.
"Ha! Difficult to check up on that, isn't it? As all the other men you've been with can now only communicate by blinking their eyes!" I said. Much later. When Margret had left the house.
Originally posted by Skyler
Hmmm
If thats true why the fux0r are they still together....
Why don't you just kick the bitch out (that's what I'd have done, on day one)?
Wow! You're really impressive - and so masculine. I wish I were more like you. You're great. And not just an heroic figure to all men either, but a huge success with the ladies too, I have absolutely no doubt about that. You've slept with lots of women haven't you? Just loads. Yes you have. Thanks for your input; we all thought you were dead manly and irresistible to anyone with a uterus already, but your words just confirm it. Cheers.
(I briefly think of lying. You know, 'It's a kind of fruit, Jonathan.', say, but the risks are huge. It's screamingly obvious that, a few months on, I'd be in a greengrocer's shop and Jonathan would shout across to me 'Papa! Show me where they keep their clitorises… I want to find out what they taste like.')