The fact that I mistakenly dredged dirty family laundry from the bowels of our Hotpoint and hung it out BEFORE it had been washed is a source of much mirth.
My wife has recounted the faux pas to every parishioner, wiping tears of laughter from her face as she does so. “And when I looked,” she guffaws, “there was all the...ha, ha...dirty underwear...oooh, I think I’m going to wet myself...on pegs...”
“I just couldn’t believe it,” she shrieks, lifting her arms in the air in a display of amazement, as those who witnessed the loaves-and-fishes miracle doubtless did.
Why not? It’s not as if I hung the cat on the line. “And there were my knickers...,” she chortled to one smartly dressed couple.
“Yes, it’s amusing,” nodded the gentleman, “but we’re not sure what it has to do with repentance and the world coming to an end.” Jehovah’s Witnesses aren’t noted for their sense of humour.
I stand grim-faced during these embarrassing recitals, like some world-weary stooge, occasionally casting uncomfortable glances at the audience. It’s only a matter of time before she ends the painful anecdote by pushing a custard pie in my face. If I ever slip on a banana skin, she may giggle herself to death. If the washing machine story makes the front page of our parish magazine, I’ll sue.
“You can’t sue if it’s true,” corrected Julie, “the editor told me.”
“He wants to know,” she added, “if you’ll pose for a picture holding your dirty Y-fronts.”
No I bloody won’t. “That would make me the laughing stock of this parish.” “The editor was concerned about that, too,” confided She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed, “but I told him not to worry – you’ve been the laughing stock of this parish for some years now. Legally, it would be quite safe.”
I’ve made greater mistakes. Like the time I mistakenly wore my then seven-year-old son’s Thomas the Tank Engine pants to work and my legs turned blue. Even the paramedic who cut them off laughed. If I’d left them on for just two more hours I would’ve had Percy’s image permanently embedded on my left buttock, apparently.
“But THAT didn’t have a happy ending, “pointed out the wife. “It would be cruel to make a joke out of it.”
I don’t know. My legs got better – eventually. “A perfectly good pair of underpants were ruined, though,” hissed Julie, her eyes narrowing.
The dirty washing story has at least eclipsed the now 10-year-old tale of the time I broke the spin-dryer door. This, too, produced belly laughs.
I blamed it on a design fault. She admitted the door could be stubborn, but felt it was reckless to take a crowbar to it. I was having a bad day, OK?
I am hopeless at domestic duties and DIY, I’ll admit. “I blame your mother,” sniffed Julie. “You didn’t even have to make your own bed.”
I didn’t even have to make my own cocoa. She was cutting my toast into soldiers until I was 32. When I got married, she offered to come round and do it. I think that’s when Julie realised she hadn’t married New Age Man.
If there was a night class on changing a plug I’d enrol – and fail it. But if Julie wanted to marry someone who could transform her property for a pittance, she should’ve become a groupie for Ground Force.
I’ve good socialist reasons for refusing to do household chores. I’m not prepared to deny a skilled craftsman a payday through the fruits of my own labour. It’s a flawed argument, however: those skilled craftsmen would earn a lot more by putting the jobs right afterwards. “Does that include hanging your clothes up?” Julie asked acidly.
The bloke next door’s mustard at DIY. I’m sure he slaves over a hot Black and Decker every weekend just to embarrass me.
He not only put up a bookshelf, but wrote nine novels to go on it. That’s dedication.
I could regale gathered drinkers at The Bell with accounts of my wife’s many senior moments, but I don’t through a sense of solidarity: that, and a fear social services may get wind of the combined family cock-ups and try to section us.
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