Husband thought the post-it notes were funny.  Instead of being annoyed, or even mildly irritated, he laughed and complimented my creativity.  He’s driving me mad.  Never before have I met one with such a high threshold for torment.  I’m starting to suspect that he’s a robot- maybe it was my broken gearbox that attracted him and not my winning smile.

I didn’t sleep particularly well last night, my knee was really giving me some gipp and Husband, in an effort to help me, offered to fetch a heat pad and sleep in the spare room to give me more space.  He did this because he feels guilty about the knee.
About six months ago, he slammed the car door on it and it really bloody hurt.  Thing is, it didn’t hurt for long, but I played on it and as such was treated to some serious guilt pampering from the poor, concerned Husband.
It’s what happened after the car door debacle that has caused the long term aches and pains I experience to this day.  And Husband knows fuck all about it.You see I made the mistake of watching Dancing on Ice. I don’t normally bother with this sort of thing; it makes me bitter.  I have all the grace of an epileptic pool table and if I were to (heaven forbid) don one of the outfits, I’m sure I’d look like a lilo stuffed into a condom.
I don’t know what came over me on this occasion, maybe it was the music, or perhaps I was

hypnotised by how Phillip Schofield has blossomed into a Triple F (fit for fifty.)  In truth, it would have been partly due to boredom and as I’m sure I’ve mentioned, being bored drives me to do stupid things.  Stupid things like putting furniture polish on my socks in an effort to recreate the magic of Dancing on Ice on a laminate floor.
Needless to say, Phillip Schofield is the reason the knee still hurts.
You’d think that I’d be feeling a little guilty at having misled my husband for personal gain.  I can honestly say (as I sit here enjoying a foot massage)  I don’t.  I do however feel a tad guilty about the blog, especially since my mother’s read it.  She phoned me this evening to advise me that she came across it through who have posted it for me over the pond.  Some how, the thought of the Husband being laughed at in America guilted me into an attempt to restore the karmic balance.  After giving myself a talking to, I made him a lasagne and phoned him at work to ask what he wanted in tomorrow’s lunchbox.

‘Anything, babe, I don’t mind, make whatever you want.’

I get the impression he thinks that this is trivial, how dare he not appreciate me when I’m trying not to be Crap?

‘Husband, just say what you want… do you want ham, or corn beef, or ham?  Tuna and cucumber? Or ham? Have ham, there’s loads of ham here. White, brown or pitta?’

‘I don’t care babe, ham’s fine, I enjoyed it all last week- a ham sandwich is a ham sandwich, I don’t care what it’s in.’

As I sit here now, dog at my feet, Husband watching The Magnificent Seven, it occurs to me that yes, putting ham and mustard in a DVD box probably was childish.
I wonder if tomorrow is the day he will break?