“Its all your fault,” announces my wife and then gives me the stink eye.
This is not how I wanted to start New Year’s Eve. Plus, when I’m getting a rollicking, I like a bit of foreplay first. On the upside, if she’s microwaved the build-up to the verbal roasting, then hopefully she’s microwaved the rest, so I could be in and out in two minutes.
“What have I done?” I ask.
“We’ve only had two visitors over the Christmas holidays. Two! You scare people away with your…humour.” Suddenly, my speed bollocking is interrupted by the doorbell. “Quick! The doorbell. It‘s go-time,” she says.
“Before I get the door,” I say, “can we both agree that this is the last time you say, ‘It’s go-time’? I don’t want to be married to an American wrestling coach.”
“You might prefer being married to a man. It’s the only way you’ll be getting any anal sex.”
“Or a decent frittata.”
“You see. This is why nobody comes round. Who makes jokes about frittatas? Can you just answer the door? No, hang on. It might be someone I don’t want to see. Just look out of the window and check who it is.”
I scurry into the front room, peek round the curtain and get a good view of our guest. I scurry back.
“Good news,” I announce. “It’s one of your friends.”
“Oh no,” she says. “I don’t want it to be one of my friends.”
“Because I’ll have to put my teeth in.”
To be honest, when I skipped down the church aisle, I didn’t think I’d be having this conversation three years later. I was hoping to reach a ripe old age before I saw my wife rooting through the fruit bowl for her teeth.
“Hang on,” I say.
“What?” she replies impatiently.
“Are you saying my friends aren’t good enough for you to bother putting your teeth in? They’re not…teeth-worthy.”
“Definitely not. I wouldn’t hold a fart in for some of your friends.”
“Who else is on the no-teeth list? My mother?”
“Your mother? No way. I owe her a lot. I mean, where do you think I got my farting policy from?”
The doorbell chimes again.
“Quick,” she says. “See if my teeth are in the bowl of crap on the sideboard.”
“Why would your teeth be in the bowl of crap?” I ask.
“The same reason why there’s a stapler, a bouncy ball and a map of France in there.”
“Oh, wait. Here they are,” I say.
“Oh good. Where were they?”
“In the bowl, next to your glass eye and your wooden pirate leg,” I say and laugh out loud, to drown out the deafening silence coming from my wife. I decide to look for her teeth in a less hostile environment. “I’m going to check the bathroom,” I say, “and I’ll get one of the kids to answer the door. Where are the kids?”
“The oldest is at his friend’s house.”
“What about, Michael Jackson?”
“Yes, Michael’s in.”
Michael Jackson is our new (and temporary – may I add) nickname for our daughter. She’s six years old, and we got her two guinea pigs (Hall & Oates) for Christmas. Like all kids her age she is struggling to come to terms with the fact that guinea pigs are living things and not toys, and as such, she holds them in the same awkward way that Michael Jackson dangled his kid over that balcony.
As it turns out, getting my daughter, Michael to answer the door was a good call, because our guest‘s horror at seeing Michael Jackson opening the door whilst holding Hall & Oates upside down by their legs, gave us enough wriggle room to find my wife’s teeth.
On reflection, a fab evening was had by all. So good in fact that my wife and I took the good mood up to the bedroom. And did she put her teeth in? Yes, yes she did. And did I microwave the build-up? Yes, yes I did.