I drive him insane he says, with all my endless whining and nagging. He never gets a moment’s peace. You have that OCD thing, he says. You should get some help. He yells this at me, wildly spraying biscuit crumbs over the sofa, waving his arms around like some crazed referee at a footie match.
Obsessive? Me? He has some nerve. What about all that wretched sport? Pub quizzes and tedious games of darts? Endless nights down the pub with his mates? Propping up the bar in the cricket club, leering at just about anything with long legs and a short skirt.
That’s obsession for you. And I don’t get so much as a dandelion for Valentine’s. I’m lucky if he remembers my birthday. He probably wouldn’t if it wasn’t the day after his.
Well, he drives me crazy too. And I’ve had enough. This time we’re done. It’s over. The locks are changed. And every stitch of his clothing is destined for Oxfam. I’ll bag it all up tomorrow and take it down there. Well, after it’s all been ironed, obviously.
© Sue Hassett