Women are the bane of my life just now. I have one who is threatening to put me in a wooden box and two others who are fighting among themselves to get me up the aisle. The female of the species don’t seem to realise that men are wired differently. And, just for the record, we are plumbed differently too.
Ladies do things in there that men just do not do. For instance, when we go to the bathroom, we don’t end up shaving our legs, applying moisturiser and grunting and straining for an hour as we pull straps and buckles ever tighter. Oh, does that not happen everywhere else? Must be just in our bathroom then.
When us men go to the loo we mean business. And that is just what we do. So all this endless complaining about bristles in the basin, shampoo on the shower walls and wafts that make the wallpaper wrinkle are completely pointless. It’s what comes naturally. It’s what we do.
This constant insistence that we open a window and squirt aerosols about until the smallest room smells like the perfume counter at Boots is a lot of tosh. However, she is insistent. I am now under strict orders to flush three times.
I get flushed myself when I hear all these tales about what they are finding in the food that we all know and love – or thoght we knew and used to love. You see, I used to work on a supermarket meat counter for a while myself. I gave it up because it was like flogging a dead horse.
We all have to be very careful and on the lookout for all these wee signs that could mean all is not well with our food. For instance, did you know that the word hamburgers is an anagram of Shergar’s bum? Well, almost.
Maybe there is no health hazard at all. I had a wee taste of horse in France some years ago and I’m still here. Maybe we are just too blinkered. There are signs that people in the food industry are angry at all the criticism. Someone even sent me a Mafia-style death threat. I woke up this morning and there was a frozen burger in the bed beside me.
Maybe it was from Mrs X. She has threatened to chuck me out if I didn’t get rid of that coffin which I think I told you about last week and which I somehow acquired in that auction of TV studio props. She says I have to get rid of it by Wednesday and – oh heck, that’s today. There must be someone who would want a nice 6ft pine box for an ornamental plant holder or a conversation piece. Anyone? Please take it off my hands.
As the deadline looms, Mrs X is pacing up and down in the hall with an axe in her hand. Oh well, the firewood won’t go wrong – unless, oh my gosh, she plans to use the axe for something else. Listen dear, it is a very narrow coffin. It’s too small for me. Mind you, with an axe she could make me fit. Why has this house gone cold all of a sudden?
However, some people are warm towards me. I am in the very happy position in having women fighting over me. It seems I have admirers queueing up because, for some reason, the rumour went around that Mrs X was about to dump me for buying that spooky box.
The woman up the road from me – let’s just call her Mrs Y – has convinced herself that Mrs X is an ogre and monstrously cruel to her poor husband. I wonder where she got that idea? Was it something I wrote? Oh well, in that case it must be true. So now this poor deluded woman has asked me if I want to move in with her. Er, steady on missus. I hardly know you. Not a problem, apparently. If I don’t want to move in permanently, she is even willing to share me. Imagine. She would be happy to be wife number two – someone I can run to when Mrs X starts shouting at me and threatening to chop up things.
The problem is that women are very jealous creatures. As soon as I told Angry Annie, my dear, sweet, next door neighbour, that Mrs Y was keen to be a second wife to me, she got very fidgety. She said: “You don’t want to have anything to do with that woman. She is bonkers.”
I could read between the lines. Angry Annie was jealous. She obviously wants a bit of the action too.
So I came right out with it and asked her if she wanted to be my wife number three.
“Listen, a ghraidh,” she said. “I can’t be wife number three. There is no way that I would even want to see your number two.” What a coincidence. That was also pretty much what wife number one was saying when she told me I must flush three times.
