My husband is still snoring and has no idea I am on his computer so here goes

Psst, it’s me. Mrs X. I shall write this only once.  That’s because I will probably never get the chance again. You see, my husband, your usual scribbler in that silly photo there, has been out welcoming in the New Year in typical Great Bernera style. Too much. Too long. Too loud. Too late.

He rolled in here at 7am, carrying not just a lump of coal but most of the contents of our neighbour’s bunker. I’ll take the sack back later. A selection of lipsticks was on his collar and goodness only knows where else as he rolled in demanding I get up to make him a bedtime snack. Not on your life, mate. Husband or no husband, I wasn’t getting out from under that lovely warm duvet.

“Go on, go on, go on,” he wailed, pathetically. I didn’t budge even when he tried the old romantic approach. That man of mine doesn’t do romance very well. It wasn’t quite the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet as he barged into the bedroom to declare his undying love for me. It wasn’t as if he didn’t try. He tried alright. I’ll give him that.

“You are lovelier with every hour that passes,” he slurred, thinking he was focussing on me as he gawped into the mirror on the wardrobe door. Lovelier with every hour? Probably true but only through the eyes of someone who has several whiskies every hour.

Standing there, nibbling on the end of an uncooked Stornoway black pudding with his flies undone and a bulge in his pocket which I rightly suspected was just a can of lager, I can share with you that I had no trouble keeping still my beating heart. He tried to get me up by going to the window and saying: “Please get up. Look out there; everyone’s enjoying themselves.”

“Come away from the window,” I said. “It’s New Year but if they see your face, people will think it’s Halloween.” Not getting anywhere, he clumped off up the stairs to the spare room mumbling he had only come home early because he had to write his column for the Press and Journal and he had to be up at 9am to start writing.  Yeah, like that was going to happen.

However, it gave me an idea – and this is it.

So when Iain eventually wakes up and finds out I have already sent off this piece, he will probably not be very happy. Then again, I think he will also be relieved as I suspect his head will be thumping a bit. Raw black pudding is well known for upsetting the hardiest of stomachs if you have it too late.

Earlier on, he said he was planning to write some really dull stuff about the horrors of the past year and how we could all look forward to a 2012 which, he reckons, will be just as grim as because of David Cameron’s economic policy.

How boring is that? No way, I think we all need a bit of cheering up after all the food and drink you’ve had to endure for the last 10 days or so. For me, the best part of 2011 was learning photography. You should try it. I like going out in the moors and hills on my own far away from barking dogs and husbands, the constant demands of teenagers and husbands, and the acrid smell of town traffic. And, yes, husbands.

The worst part? The fact that my tightwad of a spouse failed to pick up on all the clues about how I needed a better camera. You’d think he would realise that it is fairly important to have the right tool for the job.

Actually, forget that. I’ve never known him to have the right tool for any job since I met him. He always claims to have the finest tool for the job but can never find it when I want it. Bah.

Thinking he needed a wee shove before my birthday, I went out and bought photography magazines and left them lying about on the kitchen table. Sure enough, he flicked through them, muttering about the price of magazines. Then he said it. “That’s a nice camera. Bet that one costs an arm and a leg.”

That was when I coughed to get his attention and winked at him, knowingly. Eventually, he threw one of his withering glances over at me, in that daft and vacant way of his, and wondered what was wrong with my throat and my eye.

“Nothing. Must be some kind of reaction to hearing those words,” I said. “Don’t worry. I know what you’re getting at,” says he, tapping the side of his red nose. Really? I’ll believe that when I see it.

Off he went into town and was soon back with a large parcel. Then my heart really missed a beat. My darling husband had taken the hint and gone and bought me that camera.

Oh, my darling. You know, I have always loved that man. Where did he get the £1,300 from? Who cares? Woo-hoo. What’s this? It’s a big cardboard box with, well, not much in it. Just a packet of pastilles and an eye patch. I get it. Something for my throat and my eye. Typical.

I can hear footsteps up there. I have to go now. Our house is now filling up with the traditional sights and sounds of a New Year morning. 

Ah, the sight of an occupied bathroom and the sound of retching.