Chronicles of a Trailing Spouse...

Whoever wrote that a reunion is a little bit of heaven , didn't see the T-Shirt that DH was wearing when he came through arrivals last week. It was a polo shirt -- something I hate at the best of times -- but with a stripe; the sort you'd get in the grandfather's section in M&S. It was the wrong size, colour, shape, and made him look like he'd just wandered out of the milking shed after the morning shift. And so what was supposed to be a wonderful event -- a reunion after two months, the start of a new life beckoning, the one-year old who was now walking -- was slightly tarnished. By an ugly top..... By the time we reached the car I had to insist that he took it off, which he did after some harrumphing, and changed into something slightly better.  We have a tacit agreement in our marriage that I choose all his clothing, right down to shoes. He truly can't survive without me, at least sartorially. Or indeed in the whole present-buying arena. Which is why...

I've learned a couple of things this week.  The first is that should you lose your passport, check both your handbags, even if you think the pink one hasn't been used since long before the passport went missing -- because it is sure to be in there.  This can at the very least save on the cost of phoning the British embassy, Irish department of foreign affairs, The foreign and commonwealth office, all the garda stations in Galway, the local cinema, your favourite coffee shop and finally, your sister, who then in turn spends an hour tearing her study apart looking for your grandfather's birth certificate (needed if neither you nor your parents were born in Ireland). It also stops  you looking like an idiot when you have to phone everyone you know (to whom you have subjected to tearful phone calls all day long with tragic updates) to tell them, 'ha ha, it's ok, my life isn't over, I will be emigrating along with my family after all, it was in my bag all along, ...

I overheard four-year-old and seven-year-old boy's discussing me in the bath the other day. ' Mummy needs a man' said the seven-year-old  wisely as he poured a cup of water over his head. The four-year-old solemnly nodded in agreement, 'yeth' he lisped ,'cos daddy's gone'. They have a point.  This point was never more explicit than last week as my car glided to a halt at the side of the road, just off a junction, due to an electronic failure which I had been studiously ignoring for some days, despite the big red light on my dashboard flashing  'THE END IS NIGH!' . It was, as the poet says, pissing down from the heavens and for a moment I sat there, thinking, 'how can I solve this without getting out of the car? '  Had I been more attentive in the custodial duties of my mobile phone, I may have been able to solve it by phoning my mechanic, but sadly I hadn't laid eyes on it in days and it was no doubt languishing at the bottom o...