We were due to attend a charity fund raiser, a curry night `get together` of colleagues and acquaintances and I was rather looking forward to it. I purchased two tickets, one for me and one for him and told him well in advance.
The day before the curry my ex decided now was the time to spruce himself up a bit and trim his toe nails. He is rather rotund in a Pavarotti sort of a way but in spite of this, while I have not been living with him this many years, he managed the task entirely on his own. Now that I am temporarily residing with him he must have decided that it was my turn to perform the pedicure. He appeared that evening, a towel covering his modesty but scarcely covering his vast expanse of tummy and glancing sideways in my direction announced in a loud voice, “I`m just going to cut my toe nails then.” I peered up at him over my book and turning back to my pages, said nothing. Clearing his throat he said again only this time slightly louder, “I`m just going to cut my toe nails then…..”
“Go on then,” I replied.
“You callous bastard,” he cried, his hurt tone of voice putting me in mind of Victor Meldrew, “I hope you don`t come up those stairs in a couple of hours` time to find me dead from a heart attack, my body bent in half, holding my toe in my right hand with rigor mortis setting in!” “Oh don`t be so bloody melodramatic,” I said, “go and cut your bloody toenails.” So he did.
The following day he went to do some work for a friend, helping to clear out a house and was gone all day, arriving home at 6pm. He said he was going to have a bath and then called downstairs to me and said, “My jeans are a bit dirty, I`ve been wearing them all day.” Finding it hard to believe he had nothing else to wear, I enquired about other items of clothing and he said that he didn`t own anything else. “Honestly,” I said, “You get more and more like your mum every day!” “What do you mean?” he asked, and I muttered something about how he exaggerated matters and stamped his feet like a petulant child when things didn`t quite go his way and something else about attempting to ambush arrangements just to get some attention.
“Well throw them down to me and I`ll put them on a quick wash,” I said, “ and then bung them in the tumble dryer.” Needless to say they were still damp by the time we were due to leave.
He went upstairs again and rummaged around and eventually appeared wearing an ancient pair of cordouroy trousers that were quite tight around the nether regions. “I suppose that`ll do,” I sighed making my way out to the car. He joined me and as he sat down, a loud ripping noise rent the air.
“That`s it,” he cried, “my trousers have ripped, my bollocks are hanging out,” which indeed they were. “Why aren`t you wearing any pants?” I enquired incredulously as he got out of the car and stomped back inside the house.
Five minutes later he reappeared wearing another extremely old pair of jeans and off we went, me muttering again about how he became more and more like his mother with each passing day. He said, “my mother doesn`t have any bollocks!” as we made our way to the restaurant……..
It was a lovely meal as it happens, and look! It inspired me to write my first blog for ages!!