Chronicles of a Trailing Spouse...

There is a general rule in our house:  In almost all circumstances -- whether it’s a choice between the pasta-dish or the 'Catch of the day' on a meal out, or a debate about the virtues of a minor road versus a main road -- should DH go against my advice, he generally turns out to be wrong.   Put simply, I’m always right.   Triumphantly I will point out to him (or increasingly my ten-year-old daughter aka Exorcist impersonator):  'If only you had listened to me! I am always right.  In all circumstances. As in ALWAYS' Except in one particular circumstance. Let me give you an example.  The other night, after a couple of glasses of something suitably pungent, I found I was suddenly irritated at the sight of DH; slack-jawed, dispassionate, and staring with a glazed expression at the TV (yes, the eulogising has most certainly worn off at this point) and started flexing my argumentative muscles.  Not generally truculent, I nonetheless fe...

They say what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger; certainly three months of quaffing a bottle of Shiraz each night may well have toughened up my liver in the same way the past three months have tested my Pollyanna -like optimism and belief that things will always turn out OK in the end. The symbiotic and simultaneous pan-continental misery and despair that has characterised mine and DH's lives during this time -- certainly our run of bad luck seemed to be overextended  -- left us at times wondering if we were the unfortunate recipients of a hex of some sort. In isolation of course most of these situations could have been rationalised, but when heaped on top of each other they became unmanageable and I spent several weeks bemoaning the turn my life was taking, convinced in my darkest moments that I would never see DH again and was sentenced to a life as a single mother of five.  It of course all started with- the house of horrors which was hovel-house;  DH ...