It’s Saturday night and my wife and I are watching a romantic film, featuring a couple who are freakishly similar to us when we first started dating. Through a peculiar mishap they become separated and go through many trials and tribulations to be together again. Just as the film reaches the tear-jerking pivotal scene, where they eventually find one another, my wife looks over to me and says with some emotion, “You twat. You left the iron on again this morning.”
“Are you sure?” I say. “That doesn’t sound like the kind of thing I would do.”
“Do it again – I kill you.”
I look back at the screen. The couple embrace as the camera pans around the bombed-out remains of a war-torn city. I think the bleak landscape is used to reinforce the message that love can blossom anywhere, even in the most hostile environment. I look over to my wife who is eating crackers without a plate.
“Plate!” I shout. “Get a plate. Plate!” She gives me the finger and takes an exaggerated bite out of the cracker. Crumbs explode all over her dressing gown. A gorgeous white, fluffy spa robe that has ‘Do not remove! Property of Marriot Hotels’ stitched across the breast.
I try to get back to the film but my eyes keep flashing over to her every time I hear the crunch of a cracker. The crunch is followed by an energetic brushing of the crumbs on to the carpet. It’s like watching an electric planer spitting out wood chips.
The frustrated lovers decide to take shelter. They find an abandoned hotel. He takes her by the hand and leads her into the bedroom; she looks coy but willing. My wife has gone quiet. I glance over and catch her trying to secretly smuggle the lion’s share of a chocolate orange out of her pocket.
The couple start to make love – loudly; forcing my wife and I to flip open our ipads. We both begin to scroll and occasionally look up to the big screen, hoping for the sex to end. It doesn’t. He’s got the staying power of a thoroughbred horse. And she is louder than a foghorn. Pump – honk! Pump – honk! It goes on and on. So long in fact that I manage to razz round all my social media sites.
I flip the ipad shut. They are still having sex. My wife is still scrolling, making me paranoid that she has found something interesting on the Internet that I have missed. What on earth could she be looking at for this long, I wonder. Then she starts typing. Classic signs of someone having an affair.
“What you typing?” I ask.
“Who holds the world record for leaving an iron on for the longest time.”
Eventually, the sex ends.