This is an out of context excerpt. Please don'y try to guess from it what the story is about. I'd really like to know if you found it amusing; or not....
...He tried to enter silently but the old, oak door had never really fitted snugly into the natural beams that made up the jamb. With hindsight he decided it would have been better to have switched on the light, but after standing motionless for a minute or two he was happy that the noise of the chair, crashing onto the stone flags of the kitchen floor, had not disturbed anyone. He’d noticed, on the many previous occasions he had negotiated them in the dead of night, just how creaky the uneven risers of the staircase were. He was never going to fix it though, it was this kind of crankiness that gave the old building such character. In any case, it was difficult to step softly when one weighed over thirty-seven stones; but having made it to the bathroom undetected Oliver started to relax.
He held his breath and listened. He could hear the soft breathing of the children wafting along the landing from their bedrooms. There was no sound at all from his own room. He took off his clothes and left them where they fell. Even in the dark he knew exactly where his toothbrush and the toothpaste were; Rachael had a place for everything and everything in it’s place. The ancient plumbing of the Tudor farmhouse was never knowingly discrete, so he opted not to risk turning on the tap and instead dipped his toothbrush into the toilet bowl to lubricate the bristles. He could urinate into the sink as he brushed; it made less noise than pissing into the toilet. Finally prepared, all he had to do now was to negotiate the arthritic floorboards of the bedroom and slip beneath the covers. He’d done it a hundred times before and was now quite expert.
As he lifted the corner of the duvet the bedside light on Rachael’s side exploded into life. He looked across and saw her. Sitting bolt upright on her pillows, her hair a tousled mess, Oliver could see she had been crying.
"Oh! Hello darling," he croaked. "Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you."
"You didn’t," she growled. "I wasn’t asleep."
"Oh," he gulped. "Look darling, you didn’t have to wait up for me; you’ve got to work in the morning; you need your sleep."
"I need to talk to my husband," the timbre in her voice was distressingly serious. "We never get to talk anymore. I don’t know what’s going on in my own life. Why have you blocked me out?"
"I haven't," Oliver protested.
"Then why are you never here? And why are you sneaking into bed every night when you think I am asleep?"
"Aren't you?"
"No! Of course not. How can I sleep when I’m so worried?"
"Worried? What have you got to worry about? You’ve got everything a woman could possibly want; a beautiful house, a good job, three gorgeous kids, and money to burn. What more do you want?"
"I want my husband back!" a tear trickled down her cheek and she wiped it away with the back of her hand.
"Oh Rach’, I’m here. I’ll always be here. What are you talking about?"
"No Oliver, you're never here," her voice began to rise. "You're always down that damned pub or out training with the ‘lads’ or meeting your agent. God knows where you are half the time. Your children are growing up and you are going to lose them if you're not careful."
"Look, I’ve said I’m sorry about Disneyland. We can always go next year. It’s just I’ve had so much to do to get the team ready for the new season. I promise we’ll go away, anywhere you like, as soon as we get a minutes peace."
"And what about me?" she screamed and her eyes narrowed. "What does having a wife mean to you?"
"Darling! You know you mean everything to me. Don’t be so silly."
"So why did you tell everyone that a W.I.F.E meant ‘Washing, Ironing, Fucking, Etc?" the tears that had been bubbling up now coursed down her face.
"Who told you that?" he muttered defensively. "I’ll kill ‘em."
"It doesn't matter who told me, it’s enough that you said it." she hurled a pillow at him.
"It was a joke! Jesus Christ, you don’t have to take everything I say so literally."
"No, but it’s obviously what you were thinking or you wouldn’t have said it. Well if that’s really all you think I am; I resign."
"What… You can't... what do you mean?" he stuttered.
"Well, for a start off, I need some time to myself. I need to know where I stand. You can look after the kids tomorrow. You can get them ready for school, make their pack lunches, make sure they’ve got all their PE kit and homework. I’ve had enough. It’s time you took some of the responsibility. I need a day off."
"Look, I’d love to, you know that, but I’ve got to meet my publicist and my agent tomorrow. We’re launching my book. I have to be there."
"Book? What bloody book? When have you had time to write a book?"
"It’s about how I won the British Open. I wrote it yesterday lunchtime. The public are demanding to know. It’s been the biggest story in Sport this year. I might even be up for the Sports Personality thing. I can't let them down."
"So, your ‘Public’ are more important than your children then, are they? Oliver, you're becoming everything you despise. You’ve always hated celebrities, but now you're becoming one of the biggest luvvies in the business. We had flaming OK magazine on the phone yesterday."
"Oh yeah? What did they say?"
"I don’t know. I told them we’re not interested. That’s not the point. Just ‘cos you can hit a stupid little white ball further than anyone else, that does not make you a better person than them. And you're certainly no celebrity in this house. You're my husband and you're the children’s father and from now on you're going to start acting like it."
"If you think I’m only here to ‘Wash, Iron and Fuck Etc.’ then you're going to have a rude awakening. Until you drop all this celebrity nonsense and start acting like a proper husband and father, I am withdrawing all duties that you think make me your wife!"
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm saying, that from now on, you can cook your own meals, wash your own clothes, do your own ironing and look after your own children." she turned her back on her husband, buried her head into her one remaining pillow and switched off the light.
Oliver snuck into his side of the bed and moved sheepishly towards his wife. He rubbed her buttocks with his hand and tried to nuzzle into the nape of her neck.
"And that’s another thing you're going to have to do for yourself," she spat from beneath her pillow. "Now sod off and leave me alone."
*
As adept as he was in every other sphere of his life, when it came to domesticity, Oliver soon discovered how inept he could be. Luckily the children liked burnt toast and crispy beans, but after a few short days even they were complaining about the nutritional content of their diet.
He was desperate for some clean clothes. He could hardly bring himself to go to the pub in a shirt that smelt of yesterday’s beer and other people’s fags but what choice did he have? It had been a week; the magic washing basket was still broken and now full to overflowing. He couldn’t close the door to the spare room, to which he was now consigned, because the floor was lost beneath piles of discarded socks and undies and he still hadn't found the washing machine, let alone worked out how to use it. Things were getting desperate. But he’d done nothing wrong! He had nothing to apologise for.
If Rachael was menstrual everything would be okay in a day or two; if she was menopausal she should take some tablets. It wasn’t fair; why should he, who provided everything for the family, feel guilty if his job demanded certain commitments? He didn’t like talking to his agent or his publicist and the press were just an occupational aggravation. As the leader it was his job to foster team spirit and togetherness. He didn’t want to go down the pub every night; he never really wanted to go to Prague for the ‘team bonding exercise’; it was expected of him. Rachael was not going to make him feel guilty for doing his duty.
The lack of clean clothes and the absence of any nutrition in his diet only made his will stronger. James, Bart and Matt weren't much help; if anything they seemed to be on Rachael’s side. ‘Honi Soit Qui Mal Y Pense’, ‘Who Dares Wins’, ‘Per Ardua Ad Astra’, he could see now why motivation through hardship was such a strong military incentive. He was not going to buckle just because he had to clean a few clothes or cook a few meals or even see himself off to sleep each night with a swift, ‘knuckle night-cap’.
Oliver woke the next morning in a flurry of excitement and made a beeline for his shed. The answer had been staring him in the face. No clean clothes and nothing to eat; what was the obvious solution? Edible clothes of course! A mischievous smile ripped across his lips and he licked them in anticipation. A few handfuls of Nitrogenous Starch, a bucketful of vegetable protein - both of which were in plentiful supply on the farm – chuck in some E numbers, some Monosodium Glutamate, some colouring and some flavouring and Viola; Steak and Kidney undies. Oliver was surprised how good they tasted after weeks of stuff out of a tin...
