The National Lottery

For once we had, not only the living room, no, we had the honour of the whole house to choose from, a concept that seems quite alien recently. I used to ask – hey, where is everyone – now I couldn’t care, so I don’t bother, besides, if I did it might put an Indian curse on my wishful thinking.

To the untrained eye watching from a passing bus it would appear, I - We - run a B and B - apart from the fact our kids don’t pay of course – ha - that would be ridiculous – them pay for anything,? my god, the world would stop spinning.

Alone, We, the Mrs and me got comfy in the splendour of our living room, she sat on the couch, I sat in the big chair – even the ‘Brown’ décor seemed more annoying than usual. After a respectable time – four minutes to be precise - I asked her – darling - I said in my best romantic voice, do you mind if I get naked,?

She didn’t answer, which I took to mean, - no, you bloody cant. So being the alpha male of the house, I compromised, and took the button out and the zip down – a man’s bits have to breath you know, and gasses have to escape.

Dinner – or the Indian takeaway, devoured, and digesting nicely, any leftover chicken tikka has been stored in a foil wrapped dish in the fridge - for future use. Though why she doesn’t just cut out the ‘middle-man’, and simply throw it in the bin there and then is beyond me. Come Monday, the smell will be unbearable, and like a broken down record player, it’ll be – My goodness, we forgot to eat that chicken, I had better put it in the bin. Quite tedious really, but alas, it is a way of life – routine – routine – … routine.

Is there anything interesting on the TV tonight sweetheart? I asked, an open sarcastic tone reverberating in my voice – as I was opening a can of beer. Just making conversation - passing moments in the vacuum of married life, the silence killing me, as was Eamon Holmes’s Irish patter. A show to lead people into the bit where the lottery numbers are announced – why – what is the point?

Oi - fat-so - I shout - all people want is the bloody numbers for god sake.

Will I be at work on Monday – or am I to be a slave to the man for another week? That’s all they care about.

Get off the telly you moron.

I should write a letter to the BBC - I propose - to my self of course - saying it to any one else would be a waste of breath. Mrs on the couch, she didn’t bat an eyelid.

She is either Indignant – or ignorant – which is left open – I’ve still to decide – it isn’t easy or wise to pre-guess.

Sighing – and making as much slurping noises as I dared while picking bits of leftover Indian from my teeth didn’t have the usual affect. She didn’t bite – the fish weren’t feeding.

Ejaculating the bounty retrieved from the foray onto the carpet did receive a – Tut. It was something, a reaction.

Sorry – I said - grinning like Cheshire cat - picking bits of discarded chicken up.

Still she held onto the remote control, it was hers, the ‘holy grail’, and she wasn’t giving it up.

This is shite! – I said. Referring to Eamon, and his tedious quiz show he has the affront to take good money for fronting – an affront if you ask me.

Again, she, the-remote-is-mine, didn’t answer.

Fancy watching a blue movie, - I asked – in jest - knowing the answer to that question before she quickly said no – rather too loudly; I thought.

Well at least she is talking; I thought - again.

Where are you going? She said. When I put my shoes on. As if she cares!; I thought, tying my laces.

To the pub, - I said – walking out the door.

Surprise – surprise, - she said – sounding as if she was reciting the death march.

So here I am - in the pub - on my own - drinking beer - alone, and she is in the house - on her own - watching telly - by herself.

Makes me wonder why we crave the house without kids, and their dominating ways dictating every aspect of our life - at least we have a life when they are around. A preposterous thought.