Sunday, 24 July 2011


I may be wrong, indeed I hope that I am, but I fear that my wife might be developing into a bit of a control freak.

There are a few tell-tale signs such as mornings when I feel that I am being dressed like a doll.

"You weren't thinking of wearing that were you?" pointing at the shirt which I have just fetched from the wardrobe with the obvious intention of putting on.

Or perhaps the slightly more subtle:
"Obviously those trousers don't go with that shirt - but then I'm sure you knew that already".

Then there are the dietary examples such as when I have just put two slices of bread under the grill and she arrives in the kitchen to deliver the words:
"Surely you're not having toast when we're going to be having a big lunch later?"

Now as anyone will tell you, I'm anything but submissive. So whilst there is no way that I shall be giving in to these attempts to direct my life I intend to gently succumb occasionally just to keep her happy. The important thing is that I have realised what is happening and can ensure that I retain control of my own life.

Oops - must dash - she's coming upstairs and I mustn't let her catch me wasting time on my computer.

Sunday, 10 July 2011


I am about to discuss matters concerning my marital chamber but lest my children are reading this, let me hasten to assure them and indeed any others of a nervous disposition, that there follows nothing which will adversely affect your sensibilities.

There are a few rare occasions when I find that I have so mismanaged my affairs that I find myself rising before my dearly beloved who slumbers on hopefully undisturbed by my alarm clock. Indeed such is the haste with which I turn it off that I am in danger of injuring myself in the process.

I creep out of bed being careful not to turn on the bathroom light until I have safely shut the door so that the bedroom remains in complete darkness. I perform my ablutions in as near silence as possible, odd though it feels not to be singing in the shower. Once dried I creep back into the bedroom leaving the door open just a crack to afford me the light necessary to dress by and to ensure that I do not collide with the bed in the dark.

Having dressed and as the love of my life continues to sleep soundly, I find my shoes and nowadays requiring to be seated for the purpose, I lower myself slowly onto the side of the bed to put them on.

Ready to face the world, I quietly open the door and creep out leaving the dreamer totally undisturbed.

This morning I was surprised to find that as I headed to the bathroom thinking to leave my wife dormant, she got out of bed and drew back the curtains.

"Why don't you have a lie-in for a bit longer?" I suggested.

"No chance of that the way you crash around in the morning" she retorted.


Wednesday, 6 July 2011


Hooray the sun's out again. That means my legs are too. I don't get enough opportunities to wear my shorts - but then there are some who would disagree.

Rest assured that I can do knobbly knees with the best of them. Mine are right up there with the Chippendales. No, no, not the male strippers, the furniture - we're talking Chippendale chairs here.

Being aware that it's best not to frighten the children, I am careful where I display my legs. As far as public areas are concerned, the beach and the boat are pretty safe but there are other places where I feel that my legs could be unwelcome.

For instance, although the normal position for the bridge club ladies' eyebrows is raised, I have no wish to be the cause of their elevation.

Indeed, it is when I see other males arriving at the club with their knobblies on show that I am convinced that I have done the right thing by covering up.

Let's face it chaps, unless your name is Rafa or Novak it is unlikely that your legs will be of any great interest to the fair sex except as a source of merriment.

I am pleased however, that we have progressed beyond the time when I recall an unfortunate gentlemen arriving at the Bristol bridge club wearing shorts. His appearance caused the loud noise of all the ladies' jaws hitting the floor at the same time.

In order to preserve the female members' modesty, the secretary had a discreet word with said gentleman and promptly sat him in a small adjoining room to play where he was well out of view. Times have definitely changed for the better.

Sunday, 3 July 2011


Well if this doesn't convince you that I need therapy nothing will.

I'm loving my new car. However, it does pose a few new problems - well three to be precise.

Firstly, if I plug my phone into the mini's brain, my car will then do things like talk to me or on occasion, talk to itself. I let it do it's thing, not wishing to interrupt. The problem is that I keep finding that when I go into my home and need to text someone, my phone is still nestling comfortably back in the car.

Secondly, in keeping with my new car's image, I have a variety of glasses to choose from when driving. There are my everyday glasses. There are my driving glasses in a tasteful shade of yellow tint. There are my night-driving glasses in a rather more vivid yellow tint and of course there are my sunglasses which are my rather feeble attempt to look cool.

The problem here is that when I have just entered my house to discover that I have left my phone in the car, I find myself wondering why my wife has put on yellow make-up whilst she in turn is wondering whether to query my jaundiced eye sockets. So I have to return to the car to change back to my normal spectacles.

Finally, there is the issue with my door mirrors. They can fold back safely out of the way when I park but of course, if I fail to remember to unfold them, I catch myself driving off and suddenly discovering that I can't see whether it is safe to overtake.

So I applied myself to the problem of these three things to remember to do both before setting off and also before getting out of the car at my destination. Mirrors. Phone. Glasses. Eureka! M-P-G as in 'miles per gallon'.

So if you see a bright new mini with a yellow post-it note on the car window with the letters MPG written on it, you will know who it belongs to.