The way one should cut a Kiwi Fruit in half (along its length or across the middle).

	Leaving the kitchen door open (three times a day that one, minimum).
	The best way to hang up washing.
	Those little toothpaste speckles you make when you brush your teeth in front of the mirror.
	I eat two-fingered Kit-Kats like I'd eat any other chocolate bars of that size, i.e., without feeling the need to snap them into two individual fingers first. Margret accused me of doing this, 'deliberately to annoy her'.
	Which way - the distances were identical - to drive round a circular bypass (this resulted in her kicking me in the head from the back seat as I drove along).
	The amount of time I spend on the computer. (OK, fair enough.)
	First Born's name (Jonathan). Then, when that was settled,
	How to pronounce First Born's name.
	Our telephone number.
	Which type of iron to buy (price wasn't an issue, it was the principal, damnit).
	Loads of toilet-related stuff I won't distress you with.
	Where to sit in the cinema. On those occasions when we a) manage to agree to go to the cinema together and, b) go to see the same film once we're there. (No, really).
	Whether her cutting our son's hair comes under 'money-saving skill' or 'therapy in the making'.
	Shortly after every single time Margret touches my computer, for any reason whatsoever, I have to spend twenty minutes trying to fix crashes, locked systems, data loses, jammed drives, bizarre re-configurations and things stuck in the keyboard. There then follows a free and frank exchange of views with, in my corner, "It's your fault" and, in hers, "It's a curious statistical anomaly".
	Following on from the above; 'Pouring water into the back of my monitor every time she waters a plant, which she refuses to have moved to another, less overtly stupid, location.' Good thing, or bad thing? We have yet to reach agreement.
	Margret enters the room. The television is showing Baywatch. Margret says "Uh-huh, you're watching Baywatch again". I say "I'm not watching, it's just on". Repeat. For the duration of the programme.
	She wants to paint the living room yellow. I have not the words.
	Her fondness for stripping totally naked and going into a room with a group of equally nude men - acquaintances or total strangers, she doesn't care which - to get sweaty. Or 'a sauna', as she likes to call it.
	Margret doesn't like to watch films on the TV. No, hold on - let me make sure you've got the inflection here: Margret doesn't like to watch films on the TV. She says she does, but years of bitter experience have proven that what she actually wants is to sit by me while I narrate the entire bleeding film to her. "Who's she?", "Why did he get shot?", "I thought that one was on their side?", "Is that a bomb" - "JUST WATCH IT! IN THE NAME OF GOD, JUST WATCH IT"! The hellish mirror-image of this is when she furnishes me, deaf to my pleading, with her commentary. Chair-clawing suspense being assaulted mercilessly from behind by such interjections as "Hey! Look! They're the cushions we've got.", "Isn't she the one who does that tampon advert?" and, on one famous occasion, "Oh, I've seen this - he gets killed at the end."
	Margret thinks I'm vain because... I use a mirror when I shave. During this argument in the bathroom - our fourth most popular location for arguments, it will delight and charm you to learn - Margret proved that shaving with a mirror could only be seen as outrageous narcissism by saying "None of the other men I've been with" (my, but it's all I can do to stop myself hugging her when she begins sentences like that) "None of the other men I've been with used a mirror to shave." "Ha! Difficult to check up on that, isn't it? As all the other men you've been with can now only communicate by blinking their eyes!" I said. Much later. When Margret had left the house.
	The TV Remote. It is only by epic self-discipline on both our parts that we don't argue about the TV Remote to the exclusion of all else. It does the TV Remote a disservice to suggest that it is only the cause of four types of argument, but space, you will understand, is limited so I must concentrate on the main ones. 1)Ownership of the TV Remote; this is signified by its being on the arm of the chair/sofa closest to you - it is more important than life itself. 2)On those blood-freezing occasions when you look up from your seat to discover that the TV Remote is still lying on top of the TV, then one of you must retrieve it; who shall it be? And how will this affect (1)? 3)Disappearance of the TV Remote; precisely who had it last will be hotly disputed, witnesses may be called. Things can turn very nasty indeed when the person who isn't looking for it is revealed to be unknowingly sitting on it. 4)The TV Remote is a natural nomad and sometimes, may the Lord protect us, it goes missing for whole days. During these dark times, someone must actually, in an entirely literal sense, get up to change the channel; International Law decrees that this "will not be the person who did it last" - but can this be ascertained? Without the police becoming involved?

She leaves the lavatory seat down. I hate it when women do that.

We're staying at a German friend's flat in Berlin and he brings out the photo album, as people do when conversational desperation has set in. It's largely pictures of a holiday he went on with Margret and a few friends several years previously. And consists pretty much entirely of shots of Margret naked. "Hah! So, here's another photo of your girlfriend nude! Good breasts, no?" I sat on a sofa for hours of this - I think I actually bit through my tongue at one point. Fortunately, though, everything turned out all right because Margret, me and one careful and considered exchange of views revealed it was "just (my) hang-up." Great. I'm sooooo English, apparently.

See if you can spot the difference between these two statements: (a) "Those trousers make your backside look fat." (b) "You're a repellently obese old hag upon whom I am compelled to heap insults and derision - depressingly far removed from the 'stupid, squeaky, pocket-sized English women' who make up my vast catalogue of former lovers and to whom I might as well return right now as I hate everything about you." Maybe the acoustics were really bad in the dining room, or something.

So... I bought myself a laptop. Now, the last time I bought myself a computer - without any form of written authorisation - when Margret found out about it the argument went on for so long we had to send out for Chinese. This time Margret comes home and finds me with my new baby and starts up with the words "What do you need a laptop for?" Eh? Eh? I mean, how can you even begin to talk to someone whose mind works like that?

 

	Margret and I managed to have a prolonged and embarrassing row during a meal with all our parents over the fact that German doesn't commonly distinguish between 'chewing gum' and 'bubble gum'. You think I'm making this up, don't you?
	Hourly, Margret will say 'things'. Things that come from a deep well of thought fed by waters distinctively her own. Some are unremarkable. "Didn't you see the washing needed doing?" she'll say (or roar. Whatever.) - well, no I didn't; I'm a man. On the other hand, I can 'see' the road ahead of the car, because I look at that. Rather than needing to stare fixedly into the rear-view mirror because I'm talking to the person in the back seat, say. Swings and roundabouts. Sometimes, though, she goes completely Margret and I have no coherent reply. Think about this if anyone tells you English and German cultures are fundamentally the same... Last Saturday, during an evening visiting friends, we were arguing (Spook!) and she said - I need quotes here - she said "Well, you're weird because you didn't see your mother naked often enough." Hello? Hello?
	Every. Single. Thing. About our new house. Even before we'd found one it was shouty: we have differing goals, y'see. She's an 'Mmmm, has it got character?' kind of gal, while I'm a 'Will the roof last out the week?' kind of guy. Once she tried to persuade me to go for a house (really) that had no floor. It had collapsed - the carpet just sort of dropped away into an abyss. "No!" said the bloke from the Estate Agent's, jumping in front of us in panic, "I wouldn't go in there if I were you - just look in from the doorway." Yet Margret had got that 'I can just see where I'd put dresser' look in her eyes. She beams "It has wonderful light." "What?" "The light. Can you see the light?" "No. But I can see the Earth's core." Once we found a place, though (completely, utterly, everything needs doing to it, but at least it isn't about to literally collapse from character), it got even worse. The game goes like this: Margret - "What tap shall we have in the kitchen sink?" Me - "Up to this point in my life I have never cared about anything less than the answer to that question." Margret - "I have to do everything." Me - "Do you want me to get the kitchen? I'll do it. It'll take me ten minutes." Margret - "NO! No, I want you to help me choose." Me - "It doesn't matter what I say, you'll get what you want anyway." Margret - "I won't." Me - "You will." Margret - "I won't." Me - "You will." Margret - "Just choose a tap." Me - "I don't ca..." Margret - "CHOOSE A TAP!" Me - "OK, OK... The white one, I like the white one." Margret - "Thank you." And she orders the chrome one.
	She keeps making me carry tampons around - "Here, have these, just in case." "Oooooooh, what can't you carry them?" "I've got no pockets." Then, of course, I forget about them. And next time I'm meeting The Duchess of Kent or something I pull a handkerchief out of my pocket and shower feminine hygiene products everywhere.
	She's got this thing about the words 'Shut up'. Whenever I say, 'Shut up.' or, a little further down the road, 'Shut. Up.' she becomes foamingly incoherent and aggressive. Now, that's OK - my shoulders are broad enough to bear this cross - but recently she jumped to a whole new level. "Every time you say 'Shut up' to me" she said, "you have to pay me a pound." This, you understand, wasn't the culmination of some discussion or negotiation, she just makes up the deal on the spot, unilaterally. Basically, then, it's nothing but a cold-blooded, money-making scheme. Worse still, worse still, is the fact that the intention isn't even: I say 'Shut up', she gets paid a whole pound... and then she shuts up. Oh no. Oh, no no no. I say 'Shut up', she stuffs the money in her pocket, and then on she goes. That's what she has in mind. I mean, what the...? The Mafia cut better deals than that. She might as well just suddenly decide I have to give her money every time I fantasize about Natalie Imbruglia, and then where the hell would we be?
	She really over-reacts whenever she catches me wearing her underwear.
	Much like that of our Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, ours is a German-speaking household. So that the children will grow up to grunt noncommittally in two languages, while they are around Margret and I speak to each other in German. Now, though I understand it well enough, I freely admit that my spoken German is limited. And bows little to grammar (but then, that's German's fault as much as mine; how many words do you need for 'the', for God's sake, eh? I'll tell you how many. One. And, ideally, it's 'the'). I don't mind Margret correcting my syntax or explaining a misspoke idiom. What I do take boiling exception to is stuff like: Me - Ich muss einkaufen gehen. Margret - Was? Me - Was 'Was'? Margret - Wie heist 'Einkaufen'? Me - [Face.] 'Einkaufen'. [Bigger face.] 'EINKAUFEN'. Margret - Was? Me - Gnngghh... 'shopping'. Margret - Ooooooooh... 'Einkaufen'. She pronounces this 'kauf', of course, in precisely the same way I have. And then everything dissolves into a red mist and I wake up in a cell without my shoelaces again.
	Now, what you have to realise is that this was from nowhere, OK? Don't think there were previous conversations or situations that put this in context. Oh no. Just imagine the 'What the f...?' moment you'd have been standing in if your partner had said this to you, because you'd have had as much preparation as I did. So, it's just after Christmas and Margret's moaning about her present (I forget what it was, a Ferrari, I think - but in the wrong colour or something), um, actually, let me come back to this, that reminds me.
	Presents. Before every birthday, Christmas or whatever I'll say 'What do you want?' And Margret will say 'Surprise me.' And I'll reply 'Noooooo, just tell me what you want. If I guess it'll be the wrong thing, it's always the wrong thing.' And then she'll come out with that 'No, it won't. It'll be what you chose, and a surprise, that's the important thing.' nonsense. And I'll say 'Sweetest, you say that now, but come Christmas morning it'll be 'What the hell were you thinking?' again, won't it?' And she replies 'No. It. Won't.' And I say 'Yes, it will.' And she says 'Don't patronise me.' And the neighbours freeze in their seats for a moment next door, before jumping up and removing anything they have on shelves on the adjoining wall. And in the end, Margret gets her way. And I hunt around in utter desperation for two months for something before finally finding the one item that will work at 7.30pm on Christmas Eve for a cost of twenty-three-and-a-half thousands pounds. And on Christmas morning it's 'What the hell were you thinking?' But anyway.
	Back at the previous item, it's just after Christmas and Margret's going on about her present, which was, you'll recall, a necklace of a single diamond suspended on a delicate chain of white gold and sapphires. And this is what I hear come out of her mouth - "Why didn't you get me a wormery, I dropped enough hints?" You what?
	I get accused of hoarding things by Margret. Now, this is entirely unfair - electrical items never die, you see, I am merely unable to revive them with today's technology. In the future new techniques will emerge and, combined with the inevitably approaching shortage of AC adapters and personal cassette players, my foresight will pay off and the grateful peoples of the Earth will make me their God. Anyway, never mind that now, because the real point is that it's Margret who fills our house with crap. And I'm not talking about by the omission of crap-throwing-away here, but by insane design. While sorting out the stuff in the boxes, these are some of the things I've discovered that Margret actually packed away at our last house and brought to our new one:
	A dentist's cast of her teeth circa 1984.
	Empty Pringles tubes.
	Rocks (not 'special ornamental rocks', you understand, just 'rocks' from our previous garden).
	Old telephone directories.
	Two carrier bags full of scraps of material.
	Those little sachets of salt and sugar you get with your meal on planes .
	Some wooden sticks.
	Last year's calendar. And yet, were I to throw her from a train, they'd call me the criminal.
	Look, if you don't understand the rules of Robot Wars by now then I'm just not going to continue the conversation, OK?
	She keeps making me answer the phone. I'll be sitting watching the final fifteen seconds of a TV serial that I've been following for seven months (say), the phone will ring and she'll jut her head towards it and instruct 'Get that'. The thing about this is; we both know it will never, ever, ever, though-we-continue-till-the-Earth-spirals-down-into-the-sun, ever be for me. I've received perhaps three phone calls in the last eleven years, and that's counting people asking if I have a few moments to hear about an exciting new development in the area of index-linked pensions. Everyone I know either emails me or sends me dog excrement through the post, depending on the context. Margret, on the other hand, is legally obliged to have a phone clasped to the side of her head on her passport photo. What's even more irritating, is that as I, inevitably, hand her the phone she'll hiss "Who is it?" Presumably to cut through that .04 of second it would be before she finds out for herself. Oh, no, don't you go thinking it's because she might to do the panic-faced, hand-waving 'Say I'm not in!' thing, oh, Lordy, no. Proof of this is that I alway say "Just leave the ansafone on - then you can hear who it is before you pick up." But - "Get that." "No need, the ansafone's on." - then, she always leaps towards the phone to pick up before the crucial fourth ring. And, incidentally, always fails. 'Hello, I...[great wail of feedback] Oh damn, the ["Hello, we can't get to..."] Hold on... [random hammering at buttons, "the phone right now", feedback] Mil! Miiiiiiiiiil! Stop this thing now!' Oh, and while we're here, if I called my friend Mark to ask, for example, 'what time's the train tomorrow?' it'd go: Me: Hi, Mark? What time's the train tomorrow? Mark: It's 9.20, Mil. Me: OK, cheers. Mark: Bye. If Margret calls a friend to ask 'what time's the train was tomorrow?' it might come in a shade under three hours. If our house ever catches fire and Margret makes the call, then the embers will be cold by the time the fire brigade arrives. Though doubtless they'll all arrive knowing that Margret thinks 'not a dark colour for the bathroom because she feels it'll make it look small'.
	The morning of Thursday 20th of April 2000. I squint into semi-wakefulness, roll over to face Margret and yawn "Last night I dreamt you had head lice." She's drowsily replies "Well, you're going to be really mad when I tell you what I dreamt." Do we hit the ground running or what? Damn, damn, damn washing up. Now, in the normal course of things I do all the cooking and washing up. (This is partly due to a tactical error I made in an argument many years ago. You know when you're so angry you start blurring the line between masochistic hyperbole and usefully hissing threat? "Well, maybe I'll just microwave all my CDs - look, look, there goes my Tom Robinson Band - feel better now?" Been there? Splendid. So, many years ago we're having this argument and somehow I find myself inhabiting a place where saying "OK, OK, OK - I'll do all the cooking and all the washing up all the time, then!" seems like a hugely cunning gambit. In fact, though, this is not too bad a deal. You see, if Margret is cooking turkey (unstuffed, three-and-a-half-hours) and oven chips (20 minutes, turn once), then she'll begin putting them in the oven at precisely the same time. If Margret's preparing tea, then the style will be her variation on Sweet 'n' Sour that runs Burnt Beyond Recognition 'n' Potentially Fatal.) Can you remember what I was saying before I opened those brackets? Hold on... ah, right - washing up. Now, the thing is, if you're an English male, what you do when you leave home is go to the shop nearest to your new place, buy a Pot Noodle (Chicken and Mushroom), feast on its delights slumped on the sofa in front of the TV, swill out the plastic carton it came in, then use this carton for all your subsequent meals until you get married. There's a beauty of economy to it. Thus, when I cook a meal for four, the aftermath left in the sink as I carry the gently steaming plates to the table is a single saucepan and, if I've pulled out the all stops to dazzle visiting Royalty, perhaps a spoon. Margret cannot make cheese on toast without using every single saucepan, wok, tureen and colander in the house. Post-Margret-meal, I walk into the kitchen to discover a sink teetering with utensils holding off gravity only by the sly use of a spätzle glue. "How the hell did you use all these to make that?" "It's just what I needed." "What? Where did the lawnmower fit in?"
	Arguments. There are many arguments we have over arguments. 'Who started argument x', for example, is a old favourite that has not had its vigour dimmed by age nor its edge blunted through use. Another dependable companion is "I'm not arguing, I'm just talking - you're arguing" along with its more stage-struck (in the sense that it relishes an audience - parties, visiting relatives, Parent's Evenings at school, in shops, etc.) sibling 'Right, so we're going to get into this argument here are we?' An especially frequent argument argument, however, is the result of Margret NOT STICKING TO THE DAMN ARGUMENT, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE. Margret jack-knifes from argument to argument, jigs direction randomly and erratically like a shoal of Argument Fish being followed by a Truth Shark. It's fearsomely difficult to land a blow because by the time you've let fly with the logic she's not there anymore. A row about vacuuming gets shifted to the cost of a computer upgrade, from there to who got up early with the kids most this week and then to the greater interest rates of German banks via the noisome sexual keenness of some former girlfriend, those-are-hair-scissors-don't-use-them-for-paper and 'When was the last time you bought me flowers?' all in the space of about seven exchanges. "Arrrrrrgggh! What are we arguing about? Can you just decide what it is and stick to it?"
	Back in the kitchen, I'm taking a metal tray of food (chicken and mushroom pies, if you want accurately to cast the scene in the eagle eye of your mind) from the oven. I pick up the cloth-taking-things-from-oven-things that Margret has placed on the cloth-taking-things-from-oven-things-hook to protect my delicate, sculptor's hands. A degree of intense pain and dashing to the sink later, I notice that the cloth-taking-things-from-oven-things are actually crocheted. For those unfamiliar with the art form, this means that they're largely constructed from holes. I'm moved to quiz Margret. "Margret," I query, "why did you put crocheted cloth-taking-things-from-oven-things there?" "Oh." replies my always unagitated life-partner, "I like the design." I counter, "But, note, Darling, how my flesh has been seared away to the bone." "Oh… yeah." she says absently. We kiss. That's precisely how it played out, of course.
	It's a little known fact that I formulated the design of the Personal Computer, ghosting for IBM. I also developed all of Microsoft's operating systems and single-handedly guided the production of every last piece of software that runs on them. The internet? Mine too. This is the understandable reason for Margret holding me personally responsible for every fault that she encounters, even on her work PC, say. You can understand how I must have rushed the process, though, as I was also running projects determining the petrol consumption of British cars, the standard of all showers in the UK, housing construction regulations, the inferior chocolate drinks served in English cafes and restaurants, and the entire banking system. I'm truly, truly sorry. OK?
	The key to a successful relationship is communication. That's the First Rule. Margret's corollary to the First Rule is the Timing clause. This states that the best time to initiate a complex and lengthy talk about, say, exactly how we should go about a loft conversion is (in reverse order of preference): - When you see that Mil is playing a game online and is one point away from becoming Champion Of The World, Mil is racing out of the house to catch a train, Mil is in the middle of trying to put out a kitchen fire, etc. - During the final minutes of a tense thriller Mil has been watching for the past two hours. Ideally at the precise point when someone has begun to say "Good Lord! Then the murderer must be…" - Just at the moment, late at night, when Mil has finally managed to fall asleep. - In the middle of having sex.
	When Margret used to go shopping and she'd see, for example, a pair of jeans in a department store, do you know what she used to do? Try them on. I think you're all with me here, but just for anyone who's joined us late, I don't mean she'd go to the changing rooms and try them on. That would be a preposterous idea wouldn't it? No, she'd just get undressed there in the middle of the sales floor to try them on. It took me some considerable time to pursuade her that this wasn't normal behaviour in Britain, despite what she might have seen on Benny Hill. Even then, she only stopped - amid much eye-rolling and 'you and your silly social conventions' head shaking - to humour me. It rubs a tiny circle from the misted up window through which you can view the tormented, horizenless landscape that is My World to mention that I'd entirely forgotten about all this until someone sent me a email yesterday that accidentally exhumed the memory. With Margret this kind of thing just gets drowned out by the general noise. I wouldn't be surprised if, a few months from now, I'm here writing "Ahhh - that reminds me of Margret's role in the John Lennon shooting..."
	Wherever I'm standing is where Margret needs to be standing, and vice versa. Doesn't matter where we are - the kitchen, the bathroom, Scotland - we each infuriatingly occupy the space where the other one wants to be, urgently. Over the years we've developed signals for this situation. Mine is to stand behind her and mutter under my breath. Margret's is to shoulder-charge me out of the way.
	Margret went away this week to visit a place where she'd worked when she was eighteen; they were having a reunion, all the people who'd worked there over the years meeting up again. I said "Don't you go 'getting friendly' with the blokes you 'got friendly' with back then." Margret tutted out a smile at what turned out to be my needless jealousy and squeezed my foolish shoulder, "Don't be silly." she reassured, "They're all dead." Chilling. Simply chilling.
	As we're in the neighbourhood, some people say I'm obsessed with death. "Don't you realise," I'll say, "that we're all hurtling towards the grave so fast that our lives are merely a blur before the extinguishing impact? That senseless, thoughtless, timeless oblivion is our only future?" Generally, I get the reply "Yes, that's all very well, Sir, but there are people behind you in the queue - now do you want to upgrade to a large or not?" However, while I'm aware of the crushing reality of mortality that appears to have slipped everyone else's mind, I'm not a hypochondriac. Whereas Margret is not only a hypochondriac, she's a competitive hypochondriac, and she's a theatrical hypochondriac, and she's a theatrical hypochondriac by proxy. Let's make a start on those, shall we? If I say "I think I've got a cold coming." Margret will reply "I've got one coming too. And it's a really bad one." I'll say "I have a headache." She replies "I've had one for days." Me; "Ouch, I've just banged my knee." Her; "I banged mine yesterday - chipped the bone I think." If we were both flung from a disintegrating aircraft, I'd scream "I'm going to die!" and Margret would scream back "I'll hit the ground first!" Next is the point that Margret will only lay claim to prosaic infirmity if she's trying simply to top me. Under her own power she wouldn't say "I have a headache." ("This must be a brain tumour.") or "I feel tired." ("I think I have Multiple Sclerosis."). This, by the way, despite the fact she's never, ever, ill. When the kids and I come down with some horrendous bug, Margret is just an onlooker. We'll be shivering and sweating and retching and great, surging abdominal cramps bending our ashen bodies double - we'll have to paint a big cross on our front door and burn all our clothing - and she might just mention that her stomach feels a bit upset, then carry on eating the huge bowl of bacon and melted cheese she's made herself for supper. Finally, she's notorious for providing an unwanted diagnosis. We're with friends, one of whom stands up and says she has pins and needles in her foot, Margret's right there with "I knew someone who had that, it turned out to be a fatal wasting disease." If I don't stop reading my magazine and stare, rapt, into her face wherever she starts to say something, well, then, I "have Asperger's Syndrome." Obviously.
	A vasectomy. Don't care how many arguments it causes, quite frankly, it's Not Going To Happen. My vas deferens has done sterling service for me over the years and I'm not about to betray it to someone who's got a pair of scissors in one hand, some catgut in the other and nothing but his golf handicap on his mind. To hell with cutting holes in your body as a method of contraception - I like condoms, OK? Half of me only has sex as an excuse to get condoms, they're the marvel of the age. You can get them free from the doctor, they come in a wide variety of colours and - if Margret and I ever did separate - I could still use them to smuggle heroin or keep explosives dry underwater. But it's not just the vasectomy thing per se that gets me primed for the approaching row. First is the fact she tries to sell it by saying "Well, [one of her idiot friend]'s [stupid husband] had it." - like that's going to carry any weight. I have a fair number of female friends who're up for two-women-one-man, three-in-a-bed romps - but I'm not going to make much headway with that argument, am I? In fact, I may never, ever head into a hospital for a vasectomy under my own power, but simply mentioning the three-in-a-bed thing to Margret would be a fast lane to the front of some triage queue. But anyway, the worst bit about this whole vasectomy thing, is that Margret likes to call it 'the snip'. "Why don't you have the snip?" she'll say. 'The snip'. An incision is made in your flesh and through the underlying muscle. Then part or all of the tube between the epididymis and the ejaculatory duct is cut out and the ends tied up before sutures are used to seal up the hole that's been cut in your body to gain access. 'The snip'. Why don't we give dinky little names to other medical procedures then, eh? Let's call the whole giving birth process 'the pop', shall we - that just about conveys the minor discomfort of it all, doesn't it?
	She's trained the kids to open my mail. She knows how utterly infuriated it gets me when my mail's opened, so she'd trained the kids to do it. I'll come home, and all my mail is open, again. "Oh yeah," Margret will say, "I didn't know it had come, I only found it after Peter had opened it." Yeah, right. Peter's 36 inches tall, and the door handle to the porch is five feet off the ground; he's a two-year-old, stilt-walking prodigy.
	Margret flooded the kitchen last week. Turned the taps on, put the plug in the sink, and utterly forgot about it (because she'd come upstairs and we'd got involved in an unrelated argument). She goes back downstairs, opens the door and - whoosh - it's Sea World. The interesting thing about this is, if I'd flooded the kitchen, it would have been a roaring "You've flooded the kitchen, you idiot!" and then she'd have done that thing where I curl up in a ball, trying to protect my head, and she kicks me repeatedly in the kidneys. As it was, however, there's a shout, I run downstairs and stand for a beat in the doorway - taking in the scene, waves lapping gently at my ankles - and she turns round and roars, "Well, help me then - can't you see I've flooded the kitchen, you idiot."
	There are certain verbal shortcuts to a lot of our arguments. Sure, we could ease into things, build up momentum slowly, but that's so time consuming when you could fit in three arguments in the time a slow-burn would take to brew only one. So, we often favour more of a dragster-style, nought-to-argument in 1 second approach. Thus, over the years, ways of ensuring a spitting, scratching row with just one sentence have been polishing to a high shine. For example, Margret once said to me "Am I your favourite woman in the world?" The world? I mean, really. Other times she'll lay mines so we can explode into an argument later with the minimum amount of run-up. She'll go out and, over her shoulder as she closes the door, call "You can vacuum the house if you want." I'll settle down on the computer for a couple of hours. When she returns she'll stomp up the stairs, crash open the door and growl "Why didn't you vacuum the house." I, naturally, reply "You said I could if I wanted to. And, after thinking about it, I decided I didn't. Obviously, it wasn't a decision I took lightly..." and we're already there. Another dead cert is when I can't find something - the TV Guide, a shirt, my elastic band rifle, whatever, it doesn't matter - and the exchange goes: "Gretch? Have you seen my sunglasses?" "Have you looked for them?" (Oooooooo, I, it, when, argggh! My teeth are gritted just typing that.) Margret, of course, has done the ultimate and discovered a way of ensuring an argument using no words at all. The technique is: She'll have one of her friends round and they'll be chatting away animatedly in the living room - until I happen to walk in, when Margret will abruptly and conspicuously stop what she's saying, mid-sentence... Yep, one of us is going to be sleeping in the spare room tonight.
	Margret's four-hundred-and-fifty-second most annoying habit is to stealthily turn off the central heating (then light the gas fire in the room she's in, natch.). I'll suddenly notice that, sitting typing at the keyboard, I can see my own breath while from the bedroom one of the kids will call out "Papa, I can't feel my legs." And I'll shiver down the stairs to find the central heating set to 'Summer/Hypothermia/Cryogenic Suspension, and Margret in the living room watching the TV in a door frame warping furnace.
	Margret was looking at the TV listings the other night and she saw that the film 'Nell' was on. She says "Do you fancy watching this?" I, naturally enough, reply "Yeah, definitely; Jodie Foster gets her kit off in that." You know in vampire movies when the character who's just been having a quiet conversation suddenly spins round to face camera with a hissing "Kkhhhhrrr!" of bared fangs? Well, Margret does that, only instead of "Kkhhhhrrr!" spits out "That's not a reason to watch a film!" I correct her logic but pointing out "Of course it is." I'm not saying that that's the only thing of merit in 'Nell', far from it. It's a pleasant surprise; you sit down to watch Jodie Foster leaping around in the naked, and then you go "Wooh, there's more?" See also 'Sirens'. But anyway, Margret thrashed off, refusing to watch the film herself because she didn't like my marking system. Some days in think SETI has it easy, at least they're confident that they'll be understood if they stick to repeated sequences of prime numbers.

A selection, there. I'll update when I find the time. Shit, I don't think I even read the whole thing. I just kind of copied it from the Internet. Sucker for getting pulled in.

I am mad
Copyright: Your ass it's copyright!