Diary of a Crap Wife: CrapWife Cure for Man-Flu. (Blogging Blackout Over at Last!) Read more: http://americymru.net/profiles/blog/list#ixzz1KAXvE1rd


The blogging blackout is finally over and My God I’m glad. Given that I don’t do yoga, zumba or ganja, blogging is my only release. These last few days of inactivity have been torture. Instead of quietly blogging away and letting off steam, I have been gagged by technology and Husband has irritated me to the extent that I’ve spent a week researching bear traps online.
It’s been a really shit few days.
Husband is ill; He thinks he has the flu, I think it’s a cold because if it was the flu he wouldn’t be putting up martyr shelves in the hope of a sympathy shag.
If I so much as roll my eyes when he groans, sighs or sniffles he’s straight on my case telling me ‘it’s dangerous to underestimate serious illnesses.’ He claims that I taught him this last week, but I don’t remember. He looks smug when he says it and I wonder if he’s taking the piss.
He’s right though. I should definitely should take his sickness more seriously. I decide to help diagnose him.

‘Husband, are you cold?’

‘Babe, I have flu, I’m boiling.’

Not hypothermia, then.

‘Can you stand on up without pain?’

He can, so his legs aren’t broken. I’m at a bit of a loss. 

‘Don’t worry, Husband, I’ll look up your symptoms on the internet.’

DO NOT look up medical stuff on the internet. Stay away from WebMD. I forbid you.’

While flicking through WebMD I unearth a startling discovery.

‘Don’t do that face!’

‘What face?’ I ask.

‘Your startling discovery face. You don’t have whatever you think you have and you’re not dying- don’t start this again.’

Husband is being overly dramatic because I last year I wrongly diagnosed myself with prostate cancer and got a bit upset. It was ONE time and it’s an easy mistake to make.
I tell him that this was ONE TIME and that he’s a pleb.

‘Babe, only last week you thought you caught hypothermia from the paddling pool…’

I’m too stunned to speak. It’s worse than I thought. I have no idea what he’s talking about. Husband is delusional already.

‘What’s that on your neck?’ I ask him.

‘A shaving spot’ He’s looking at me with suspicion.

‘You’ve got that look in your eye. What have you read?Whatever it is, you don’t have it, you won’t get it and you’renot dying- do not get the WebMD ‘noids, I can’t be arsed with it, I’ve got the flu.’

He hasn’t got the flu.
And he just called me paranoid. It’s probably the fever talking.
I gaze lovingly at Husband for a full four minutes before he gets annoyed and goes to bed. I will miss him when he’s gone.
Two hours into his coma I take him a bowl of herb soup.

‘What’s this and why have you got a tea towel over your face?’he asks, without as much as a thank-you.

‘Protecting my face from hayfever.’ he’s too weak for the truth.

‘Why is there pot-pourri outside the bedroom door?’

‘Because you smell.’

Husband doesn’t question this, he knows that I think that men smell of poo. I bought some honey and almond showergel recently and now he smells like someone shit on a toblerone.
Husband staggers downstairs after a 4 hour coma; I set off the bell sound effects app on my iPhone to alert the neighbours he’s on the move.

‘What are you doing? Why are you wearing your funeral dress?’ he asks (I suspect the end is near so I changed earlier to save time.)

‘Why are you burning incense? It smells like a fucking opium den in here. Why have you turned the phone bill into a pot-pourri cone?’

I read online that in the 1400’s burned incense and inhaled herbs to prevent infection.

‘Why is there a red cross on the back door? How the fuck am I going to get that off…….?’

I haven’t the heart to tell him that such things won’t matter in the afterlife.

‘Oh my fucking God. You’re pretending I’ve got the Plague. Stop it. Be normal. Stop pretending I have the bubonic plague.’

I can’t hear him because I’m deep in prayer.

‘Wife, seriously- stop chanting, I’m not dying, you’re not a grieving widow and I don’t have the black death- it’s just a fucking cold!’

Ha. I knew it wasn’t flu.

Diary of a Crap Wife: Hypothermia Can Kill. (Wikipedia tells me so.)

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Apparently Husband didn’t sleep very well last night.  This is because (according to him) I woke up 6 times, loudly declaring ‘I’m hot!’ and then got out of bed at 4am and cried for ten minutes because I was too cold.
I remember nothing of this and have only his word for it, so given his recent dishonesty, I don’t believe him.  (Although… it would explain why when I got up this morning I was wearing gloves and the foil space poncho my mother got me when she visited NASA.)
We’ve started getting up a minimum of two hours before he leaves for work in order to spend quality time together and talk.  This was his idea. It is a very bad idea.  Given that I have hypothermia, I think I can excused any blips the usual sunny disposition he’s come to know and love.

‘Do you want toast babe?’ he asks, all healthy, happy and normal.


C-O-C-K-    O-F-F    I spell out using my hands to make the letters.

‘Is that a yes or a no? I don’t read sign language.’

Glare and two fingers.

‘Two pieces of toast then? Honey?’

I like honey, so I nod.
My mood improves as I read ‘get well soon’ messages on twitter from people who understand how ill I am.  Husband promptly ruins this mood by whistling.
When we got married, I drew up a list of rules; one of them prohibited whistling before midday.  Husband seems to have forgotten this rule, along with many of the others, including:
  • No pissing in wardrobes no matter how drunk you are
  • No asking for sex for a month if England beat Wales, Scotland or Ireland in
  • any sporting event, including synchronised swimming, archery and bowls.’
My fingers and toes are still a turquoisey blue, and if I stand in the garden in my pyjamas I start shivering again.  This is proof that I have hypothermia.   Husband sees me shivering and tells me to come in before I… and I quote, ‘…catch a sniffle?’

Sniffle? I have hypothermia! A sniffle is something made up by parents to make kids do their anoraks up… or to explain to strangers why their offspring drips snot… I have a potentially life threatening condition caused directly by his cheating on me with animals.  I would tell him all this, but I’m not speaking to him.

‘This is nice, we get to spend some time together before I leave now. How’re you feeling?’ he asks.

‘Babe? How’re you feeling?’ he asks again.  I’ve tried, I really have, but my will to speak is too strong:

‘I feel like shit, I have hypothermia and you aren’t taking me seriously.’ I tell him.

‘I am taking you seriously, but babe, you’ve got a sniffle because you got wet and you’re grumpy because you’re tired.’

Grumpy? I’m not grumpy; I’m having an emotional breakdown caused by ice shards in my brain. I hate it when he plays things down.  Hypothermia can cause all sorts of medical complications- I looked it up on Wikipedia.
By the time Husband returned from work last night I had fashioned my office chair into a passable replica of Stephen (God amongst men) Hawking’s wheelchair.  I accomplished this using duct tape, straws, a digital photo frame, some bamboo canes and the waste hose from the washing machine.  This exercise was designed to give Husband a glimpse of the consequences involved when not taking potentially life threatening complaints seriously.  If the wheelchair didn’t do it, the voice changer app on my iphone certainly hit home.
Judging by the look on his face, Husband will be more sympathetic in future.
I would like to quickly draw your attention to the ‘pet names needed’ button above this post- please click and share with me your ideas for embarrassing pet names for me to call him in public.  There are some crackers there so far… Sunday lunch at my mother’s is shaping up to be a colourful affair.

Diary of a Crap Wife: Here’s to you Miss Havisham (Stay away from the Light.)

Please visit blog in its original format at www.crapwife.com

Husband vowed that he wasn’t going to speak to me last night but he had to in the end.  I think I’ve got hypothermia.

‘Wife, you don’t have hypothermia, you’re a just a bit cold because you were being mental in the garden wearing your fucking wedding dress.’

A quick Google of the symptoms confirms that yes, I have hypothermia.

‘You’re shivering because you’re still wearing your wedding dress and your extremities aren’t turning blue, you’ve painted your bloody toe and fingernails turquoise.’

This is beside the point. I have pins and needles and I’m woozy. I fear the end is near.

‘Maybe if you went and changed instead of standing there like Miss Havisham you’d feel better.’

The similarity is uncanny; it’s 20 to nine and I’ve spent all day training the dog to hate men.  He’s probably right about the getting changed thing though, but Alas! I am too weak.  Better to have a rest on the kitchen floor instead, I decide.

‘Babe, get up, you’re dripping everywhere.’ he says, stepping over me.

 ‘Woe- I can barely hear you speak, Husband; my energies are concentrated upon staying away from the light.’ Each word is a struggle for me.

 ‘Wife, your veil is stuck to your ears and the light is from the fridge, I’m making dinner. Get up.’

Hmm.  I am hungry; no doubt a side effect from the hypothermia.

‘Why are you so dramatic? Is this about that Gin thing?’

So he admits it then, eh?

‘My dearest Husband, oh my weary love, I am in much psychic pain- I am finding it troublesome trying to come to terms with your infidelity…  And I’m not fucking dramatic.’

‘How are you not dramatic? I’ve come home tonight to find my wife bobbing in the paddling pool in her wedding dress with our ‘first dance’ song blasting from the conservatory. And now you’re trying to speak all Dickensy- How is that notdramatic???’

 ‘You lack the tools to understand the complexities of my wounded heart…’ I say, eyes rolling as death nears.

When I emerge from my brush with death and see that he’s ignoring me and chopping tomatoes I decide to be the bigger person.
Husband is clearly ashamed of his recent indiscretion and his refusal to pander to me is obviously because he feels so guilty.
Plus, I really am fucking freezing.  I head upstairs to change.  After screaming for nearly 3 whole minutes Husband is eventually there like a flash.  He doesn’t seem concerned by my distress and suggests that my skull isn’t actually bleeding and that perhaps the ‘blood’ is seepage from my latest home hair dye attempt.  I’m not convinced.
Over dinner, he brings up ‘Gin.’  I tell him that I’m not ready to hear him speak the name of that slag pasty and clutch my heart to indicate that it still hurts.

‘Slag pasty?’

I can’t answer as unfortunately I seem to have fainted.

‘You said slag pasty? Gin the slag pasty? As in Ginster’s pasty?’ he thinks he’s fucking Columbo.

‘Did I? I can’t recall; my memory’s patchy which is probably due to the hypothermia or the bleeding skull.’

‘Are you telling me that you’ve been accusing me of cheating and floating in the paddling pool in your wedding dress because I ate a steak bake?’ he asks.

‘Betrayal is betrayal flowerpot, you made me be a vegetarian so in your face.’ I reply.

‘Oh my fucking God. Firstly, the vegetarianism was your idea. Secondly, I only ate meat in work because I found a 4 pack of Peperami behind the DVD’s and some wafer thin ham under the sofa on day 1 of us being veggie!  I was playing you at your own game.’ he’s riled.

I have no idea how they got there and I resent the accusation.
He’s gone a bit red and he’s speaking quite loudly, it looks like Husband might be about to break…

‘You’re mad, babe, I love you.’ He says, finally.

What? That’s it? I’ve caught hypothermia and told my mother he’s cheated on me and that’s it?
This is what really gets on my tits about Husband. Doesn’t matter what I do, how I do it, how mental I act- he’s never any closer to breaking than when I first married him.  Sometimes I don’t know why I bother.
Husband went to bed happy, his patience had miraculously rejuvenated.  He even attacked the bedtime challenges with renewed vigour, throwing a new move- the figure of 8- into the naked cock dance recital.
As I watched Husband hum the theme tune to Neighbours and perform the helicopter, his willy wind-milling furiously like the hands on Jodie Marsh’s body clock, I realised that I’m going to have to try harder to break him.  I think it’s time to buy a video camera, don’t you?

Diary of a Crap Wife: Being a Better Wife when Husbands Cheat (Silent Witness)

this post can be viewed in its original format with pictures at http://www.crapwifeblog.co.uk   and at   http://www.craphousewife.blogspot.com
I didn’t sleep well last night. Husband’s deceit is weighing heavily on my mind. He’s cheated on me with animals so what else has he lied about? Am I honestly the centre of his Universe? Is his name actually ######? Does swallowing semen really make you lose weight?
His response to my text about his infidelity was curt:

‘I’m not going to dignify that with an answer. Love you, see you later. xxx’

Practically an admission of guilt.  Yet I still love him.  Yes he’s cheated, yes he’s betrayed me, but I’m really fat, I can’t afford to be back on the shelf- health and safety would have a fit.
I manage to stop dry crying long enough to order the shopping online.  Sainsbury’s is taunting me and every ‘thank you message’ feels like a knife to the heart.  It’s not just Husband’s betrayal that is hurting… Sainsbury’s and I go back years- I do 6 ‘big shops’ with Tesco’s and it sets my Husband up with a Ginster’s Slag-Pasty; hardly fair.
It’s probably somehow my fault though, maybe if I brushed my hair more often this wouldn’t have happened? Perhaps if I used my immac on my bikini line instead of putting it in his baldness cure lotion…?  I suppose I shouldn’t really have deleted the Matrix from our V+ to make room for John Bishop with his beautiful floppy hair and plus size teeth?  I must change to save our marriage.  I will be a better wife and remind him why he loves me.
Husband texts while I’m polishing the skirting boards:

‘How’s u r day going?’

‘Busy cleaning and being a good wife and stuff. Please don’t leave me.’

‘Wtf r u on about? I am not going to leave u and I haven’t cheated.’

‘I have evidence. I understand tho, it’s all my fault, I see that now, I’ll be a better wife.’

‘Babe, seriously, what r u on about?’

I decide to stop being cryptic and confront him directly about the Ginster’s slag-pasty:

‘I know about Gin. Was she worth it?’

‘I don’t even know anyone called Gin. Why r u being mental?’

‘Not being mental, have proof. Don’t worry, will be a better wife so that you don’t stray again. I’m sorry and I love you etc.’

‘Not cheated. Don’t know Gin. No idea what u r on about. Love u the way u r- don’t go all fucking alter ego on me, I’ve had a hard day.’

Alter ego? Me???

‘Ok. Love you Husband. Let’s forget this and save our marriage. Going to weed the garden (even though it hurts my knee) so that you have less to do.’

‘FFS. Leave the plants alone, and don’t be mental in the garden, the neighbours already think we’re weird.’

After cleaning the house I decide that there’s no better way to remind Husband how much he loves me than by resurrecting one of the ‘Old Faithful’ games he so enjoys.  I think that the Silent Witness is probably his favourite (where I pretend to be a corpse and He has guess what killed me) so I set about planning my death.
Why Husband is pissed off when he gets home is beyond me.  I’m the victim in all this!
The house is clean and I went to loads of effort to make the Silent Witness game really convincing.  It might be that he doesn’t like the smell of Zoflora? It could be that he may have accidently thought I wasactually dead for a few seconds?  Or it may be, as he put it, that ‘I was being mental in the garden again’ when he specifically told me not to.
Either way, he won the ‘Silent Witness game’ in record time by correctly guessing that I’d drowned in the paddling pool while wearing my wedding dress.

Diary of a Crap Wife: I’ll have his Meat Balls for Earrings (Jersey Boys and Migraines.)

this blog can viewed in its original format with pictures at www.crapwifeblog.co.uk or craphousewife.blogspot.com- please do visit for full effect.

After the migrainey horror of the past 5 days, I am grateful to report that my head no longer feels as though it’s home to the chorus line of Jersey Boy’s who’re fighting over a Wizard of Oz DVD.
On Friday, instead of the 45000 CVs from boy band hopefuls I anticipated, I was greeted with a single email advising me that my advert has not been processed as my card issuer declined the transaction. The snotty nosed slag on the phone tells me this is because I made an error with the expiry date.
There must be a mistake as I don’t make mistakes.  Mistakes are for Husbands and tax offices.  I re-check the original order and realise that a card expiring 01/04 probably wouldn’t work.  This is a major hiccup and I can’t help but feel that this typo is somehow Husband’s fault.  Now, when I head out of the door on my errands later, all Husband has to do is mow the lawn and drink beer. I’m tamping.
I need to make him twitchy to buy time so I can formulate a plan B.

‘Morning Husband, I love you.’

‘I love you too baby, you feeling better?’

‘I’m alright thanks cock-mag, full of the joys of Spring. I missed you when I was sleeping.’

He’s visibly shaken.

‘Meant to tell you babe- I’ve sent that Regaine back, it wasn’t working and it smelled funny.’


‘Also, I’ve thrown out all the meat Oxos and ordered a vegetable steamer.’ He tells me.

Two bollocks.

‘Yeah, I was going to say that actually, I thought of it yesterday, before you did probably…’ I reply.

‘…yeah well if being veggie is making you better we should keep it up.  Love you.’

Two mahusive bollocks and a misshapen penis called Simon.
Now I’m going to have to schedule a meat stop into my very busy day.

‘I’ve decided that I’m coming to town with you.’ Husband tells me.

Husband initially thinks that I am crying because I don’t want to spend time with him, then he realises that my headache’s probably come back and urges me to go to bed.
I’m going to leave the rest of the weekend unreported- I had a veggie BBQ and I can’t bring myself to talk about it yet.
This morning however, I feel far more positive about the vegetarianism. I must admit, the headaches although as frequent are less severe, and yesterday the Doctor said it’s a ‘step in the right direction’.  Not only that, it has highlighted just how dedicated to my health and well being my dear Husband is.
When he left early for work this morning I ventured online in search of meat free meal options and followed a slutty little recipe onto the Sainsbury’s website that promised to be both easy and satisfying.
The Sainsbury’s website is a marvellous thing.  One click and the ingredients are in my basket, and I’m proud to tell you that the whorish beef wellington flaunting itself at the top of the page was no match for my resolve.
Pleased with myself I log onto my nectar transactions and decide to pay with points.
Below is a table showing the recent purchases I have earned nectar points for and the text messages I received from Husband around the time of said purchases:
Text Message from Lying Cock-Sucker Husband
Purchases Brought Home.
Mystery Missing Purchases.
Love you so much, hope head is better, veggie thing good idea, will get V moussaka.xxx

Sainsbury’s Vegetable Moussaka, Be Good To Yourself 400g

Nurofen Migraine Pain x12

How’s your head, love you.   Actually feel healthier for being veggie, it’s a good idea babe. Do you think it’s helping your head?xxx
Sorry u r not feeling well again- poor baby, I read that cutting sugar can help? Shall we give it a go? I don’t mind; anything if it makes u better. xxx
I agree. Having couscous in a bit, shall I pick anything up? xxx
I can’t believe he actually thought he could get away with this kind of deceit.  While I’ve been sat at home eating celery (and one fillet steak, a ham and cheese sub, a McChicken sandwich and two corned beef pasties from Gregg’s)he’s been in work cheating on me with animals.
A quick internet search of ‘my husband is cheating on me with animals’ brought up a worrying selection websites.  I was unable to sign Husband up to any of them as I had first intended because my desire for revenge couldn’t match my horror at some of the stuff I have today seen.  I don’t care how liberal you are, fantasising about getting raped by the Lion King and sucking off horses is just plain wrong.  Instead, I text him:

‘I can’t believe you’re cheating on me.’

With a Ginsters pasty no less; a fillet steak I could sort of understand, a lamb shank even- but a Ginsters pasty for fucks sake? This must be exactly how Sandra Bullocks felt when her Husband shagged that tattooed munter.  I may start a support group.  In the meantime, I’ve made him a pie for dinner.

Read more: http://americymru.net/profiles/blogs/diary-of-a-crap-wife-ill-have#ixzz1JJHI3dXZ




Diary of a Crap Wife: Pimms ’round the Pool (Audition for X Factor)

this blog can be viewed in its original format with pictures at http://www.crapwifeblog.co.uk and http://www.craphousewife.blogspot.com

Husband is completely over his illness and I almost wish he was sick again because the whistling and general cheerfulness is ruining my mood.
Nothing I say or do seems to be denting his demeanour, it’s like living with Ant and fucking Dec.
My mood isn’t great because my pool arrived today.
I say pool as though it’s some watery oasis of mosaicked charm, it’s not. It looks to be made of blue tarpaulin and tent poles. Still, it’ll do the do job.  When I decided that I wanted a pool I wasn’t unrealistic about the restrictions of budget and space- I knew I wasn’t going to be able to have a free form pool dug into the ground or even an above ground one encased in smooth Swedish looking wood… Why then am I so disappointed?
Because I didn’t expect it to look like a paddling pool, is why.
When I looked at the pictures online, there was a woman pictured tit height in water with her Husband and 2.4 children.  It is clear to me now that these weren’t real people, or if they were, then they must have been bollocky midgets because there’s no way that that this water will come past my kn-ankles, let alone my jubblies.
I don’t even think there’ll be room for me to wear my arm bands and I know for a fact that the inflatable hippo with drinks holder is a no-go.  Husband is more positive than me.

‘It’ll be nice, you watch- we’ll fill it with warmish water and put potted plants around it.’

‘I’d rather die that be seen in that.’

‘Come on, give it a chance, all you wanted it for was floating and reading in anyway.’

‘I’d rather die than be seen in that.’

‘I’ll set it up and see how it looks, right?’

‘I’d rather die that be seen in that.’

While watching Husband hammer away at assembling our new pool I am reminded how much I love him- a lot. There is nothing he wouldn’t do to make me happy and he’s constantly trying to think up new ways to impress me.  Unfortunately, the pool still looks shit, but I’m going to lie and say I’m grateful for his efforts.
I head outside to relay this but Husband starts speaking first:
‘Meant to say Wife, your singing yesterday was brilliant, you should start a band.’
Sarky little bastard.

‘Yeah, I know, I was going to actually.’

‘I think you’d be really brilliant babe. You should definitely start a band. You should do it and then go on X Factor.’
Sarky little bastard.

Does he honestly think I’m stupid enough to parade my rotting vocal chords on telly and humiliate myself by sounding like Mariah Carey getting raped?
‘Babe, I’m being serious, you were brilliant, you should do it, you should sing that REM song that you practiced yesterday.  They’d love it.’
Sarky little bastard.

He does not know who he’s messing with.
On a separate note:  Something very weird has happened; The front door lock has been filled with chewing gum.  I have no idea who would commit such a wanton act of vandalism but suspect the robbers who stole Husband’s clothes may be to blame.  In truth, it is but a minor inconvenience, my cousin will be able to fix it next week when he’s back from holidays.  In the meantime, any visitors can use the back gate which will give them a lovely view of our garden and swimming pool, so no real hardship.
On another unrelated note:  Friday is going to be a very busy day for me.  I am meeting an artist, and we will be discussing illustrations for the blog- I’ll be gone all day, so sadly, Husband shall be spending the first day of his 3 day weekend alone.



Single man with learning difficulties requires pool boy to take over maintenance of garden pool.  Must be young, enthusiastic and reliable.  Client suffers from frequent short term memory loss & needs someone who is sensitive and patient. Client also partially deaf, Will be necessary to speak louder than is usual when interacting.  Excellent rates of pay, health and dental insurance, holiday entitlement and use of vehicle provided. Contact ###### (carer) on: tel.###########  to arrange an interview, or attend interview open day on Friday 8th, April between 1-6pm.



********** BAND AUDITIONS: ***********

Music producer requires 4 piece boy band for reality TV show. Auditions to be held at private address, pls note entire process will be filmed by hidden cameras. Do you know how ‘not to take NO for an answer’?- Only most determined & confident artists need apply and we have designed our audition process to find them.  Dress to impress and remember, you are on camera from start to finish- DO NOT TAKE NO FOR AN ANSWER…make sure you stand out.

Audition Open day 18/04/2011 2-7pm at ## ######## ##, ##### #####, #####, ###### email: ############@gmail.com



Diary of a CrapWife: It Ain’t over til the Fat Lady sings (Everybody Hurts, sometimes.)

this blog can be viewed in its original format with pictures at http://www.crapwifeblog.co.uk    or at     http://craphousewife.blogspot.com/

Husband’s sickness isn’t my fault.  After all, he didn’t have to eat the cheese- he could have negotiated with me instead. When you think about it, really, it’s his own fault for not communicating with me effectively.  Monday morning, after a restless night and an early morning taking delivery of parcels, Husband is adamant that it is not his fault.  In fact, he’s pretty certain that I’m to blame (!)  This, of course, simply isn’t true; and I tell him so.

‘This simply isn’t true.’

‘You made me eat a ball of garlic cheese that’d been in your Nanna’s handbag for 18 hours.’

(I decide not to tell him that my Grandparents have since read the blog and rang to advise that it was more like 22 hours because they were caught in traffic at by Leigh Delemare service station.  Or that it had been sat on the windowsill of their hotel room for 48 hours prior to this.)

‘I can’t believe you’re blaming Nanna for this Husband, she carried that cheese all the way home for you- you’re not even allowed to bring foreign food stuff back into the UK, she could have been jailed. Why are you being like this?’ I question.

‘I’m not blaming Nanna, I’m blaming you.’ says Husband

‘Potato/potatoe, we’re related.’ says I.

‘Fine, let’s see if she has another ball of cheese and you eat it then?’ Husband looks smug.

‘Ooooh you’d love that wouldn’t you? Me to eat a ball of cheese and get even fatter. You just don’t want anyone to fancy me; you’re trying to make me fatter so that no one fancies me.’

(No-one’s actually fancied me since 2004.)

‘You’re a pleb.’ He tells me.

I’m shocked, as that usually works.  Husband goes back to bed with a book and I set about tidying the house (not out of guilt.)
I find that the cleaning is enjoyable today and before I know it, I’ve hoovered (not out of guilt) mopped the floors (not out of guilt) and made a batch of ‘non vegetarian made with actual chicken’ broth (not out of guilt.)
Husband seems really thrilled with my efforts, especially with the soup which he says, and I quote, ‘is just what the Doctor ordered.’

I am pleased that we’re finally reaching a truce, as I’m finding being blamed for another person’s crimes a terrible burden which is no good for my chi.
I don’t know what made me mention the chicken arse while he supped the soup, but as Husband vomited the truce onto my nice clean floor, I realised immediately that it had been a mistake.
In an effort to make light of the situation and recapture the sentiment of the truce, I joke:

‘Oh, don’t worry; at least you didn’t throw up on the cat.

Admitidley, this isn’t the funniest line I’ve ever quipped, but Husband’s a simple creature and it’s enough to make sick come out of his nose.  There is no greater horror than watching the one you married vomit through their nose.
Suffice to say that the truce is off.  Husband believes that this was a deliberate act of sabotage on my part.  I am totally mortified that Husband thinks I would do such a thing, and I tell him so.

‘I am totally crushed that you think I would do such a thing.’

‘You posted all my clothes back to me-second class; you’re capable of anything.’ He says.

‘There you go, bringing up the past again…’

‘They only arrived this morning! You still bip at me for forgetting to put the bins out on our wedding night.’ (I had left a note reminding him, which he ignored.)

I can see that Husband isn’t in the right frame of mind to listen to reason and suggest that he goes back to bed to think about what he’s done.
This doesn’t seem to go down well and he slams the door on his way out- I think this may be domestic abuse but I’m not sure.  Thankfully, my mother is somewhat of an authority on this as she sits on a domestic abuse forum- unbelievably, she’s more concerned about Husband than me.  She suggests that I reread my blog, I tell her I don’t have time as I’ve got to redo the floor.
I am very hurt and upset about Husband’s very low opinion of me (especially when I’ve tried to be so helpful.) I decide to play Xbox to perk myself up.
Being as I spent so long organising things this morning (not out of guilt,) I am able to locate the batteries for the karaoke mikes instantly.
Given that I’m such a perfectionist, I decide to pick one song and practise it before trying others and starting a band.
By my eleventh rendition of R.E.Ms heart wrencher ‘Everybody Hurts’ Husband has had enough time to realise that No, he didn’t have to eat the cheese, making it his fault he’s sick, and Yes, I was only trying to cheer him up when I made him laugh while he vomited.’

That, my friends, is what marriage is all about. Communication.