I recommend marriage.

Or perhaps I recommend mutually supportive relationships: either way, I wouldn’ t know as I’ve never been in a long term, same country sustained one before.

Of course, with a lead in like that you can guarantee that one partner has been a bitch and the other partner particularly understanding and, given what long term readers know about me from what I have blurted out here (pretty much everything I am thinking at mostly inappropriate times), it isn’t a stretch to assume the bitch is me.

Last Thursday I had had a very long day. Up at five for fixing husband’s breakfast and lunch before I went to the gym, then a long ten hour working day. Lots of people who were hard to work with, mutliples rain showers and treacherous driving conditions, problems with logistics: it was a very hard day. Most days I feel I earn my wages (none of that ‘oh, you are so lucky to have this job – you get paid to go out and have fun’ rubbish; I am paid to make sure you have fun and it doesn’t just happen – I facilitate it) but that day I really wasn’t being paid enough.

Then, after work, I had to drop by a friend’s place to pick up supplies. She has her own tourism business and I am running it for a month for her while she is away on holiday. I had had a raging headache all day, no time for lunch and it was after 8.30 when I walked in the door.

I was exhausted, feeling ill and it was probably only because my husband planted himself in my path, lips outstretched, that he got kissed. I mean, I wanted to kiss him,  I always want to kiss him; I just didn’t have any spare energy to deviate from my projected path. He didn’t get talk; instead he got a missus who started peeling off her clothes as she walked towards the bedroom.

The shoes came off at the front door; the panties wrapped around the bedside lamp and the rest formed a trail in between. I crawled between the sheets, said , “Please bring me food”, ate food when it was brought and dropped into a sleep so intense it might have been a coma.

So, a recap. My husband greets me at the door with loving embraces and fond words. I vaguely blink at him, shove my lips at him as a bulldozer device, ignore whatever his voice is saying, demand food in the only four words I speak all night (I grunted yes/no to a couple of questions and that was it) and pass out.

The man is a saint. I should feel ashamed of my behaviour (I did apologise the next morning because I recognise that it does smack of treating him as a chattel) but I honestly could not have summoned up one more iota of energy to behave differently.

And if he had not been there? Why, I would have made it probably only as far as the couch and there would have been no dinner. I don’t remember anybody being that caring to me in the past or, more to the point, I don’t remember ever being sure enough of anybody to let myself just be myself. It’s really nice.

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