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Last night didn’t turn out quite as I’d planned.
‘Where are my clothes?’
‘Wherever you left them, Husband.’
‘I left them in my house, and they’re not here now.’
‘Maybe they were stolen, I’ve been distracted today what with trying not to impale myself on a golfing umbrella and being fat.’
‘I didn’t call you fat.’ He says.
‘You did a bit. It’s fine, and I will diet if it’ll make you happier.’
(Accusing someone of calling you fat is an easy way to panic them.  This only works if you’re fat.)
‘I didn’t say I want you to diet!’
‘You said that I should be vegetarian in order to lose some weight!’
‘No I didn’t! That’s about your headaches! And I didn’t even suggest it! It was my mother!’
‘So now your mother thinks I’m fat?’
The ripe panic on Husband’s face is as obvious as that wart thing on Sarah Jessica Parker’s chin.
‘Look, can we just drop it, Husband; you’re only making it worse. I’ve had a really busy day today and I’ve got a paper cut.  And stop going on about your clothes, I don’t know what you’ve done, but I suggest you find them.’
‘Yeah ok babe, I’ll go and have a look, I need to find something- I’ve got my team lunch out tomorrow and they’re doing pictures for the new ID badges.’
Husband rummaged around upstairs for nearly an hour.  Obviously he was never going to find his clothes- by that time they were probably being chucked around by a night-shift postal worker that smells of grapes and speed.
‘Can’t find them babe- but good news… I’ve found my old Uni clothes in the attic; I’ll throw some of them on a quick wash.
Oh my fucking God.
I don’t know if I’m alone here, but when Husband and I moved in together, I confiscated a large portion of his wardrobe for shame’s sake. They’ve been boxed in the attic ever since.
‘You can’t wear those, I forbid it.’
‘I’m going to have to babe.  If my clothes really have been stolen then I don’t have a choice- I can’t even pop to Tescos to get something new as I’ve had a few beers.’  He’s calling my bluff.  He wouldn’t.
Apparently he would.  The man has no shame.
Husband went to work this morning dressed in a Global Hyper Colour T-shirt, leather waistcoat and a pair of satin stripe trousers belonging to a long lost tuxedo.  The trousers are so tight you can see his knob, the waistcoat has the look of a raped and splayed bean bag and the T-Shirt appears to have Chlamydia.  I am absolutely fucking mortified.
‘You don’t have to tell people that you’re married when you’re on a work’s day out Husband- I don’t mind if you want to pretend that you’re single sometimes.’
‘Don’t be daft, Wife, I love you, I love telling everybody that I’m married to you. I have photos of you in my wallet. I show them to everyone.’
‘I just mean that you don’t have to mention my name- you could just say ‘my wife’ you don’t have to use my full name.’
‘You’ve got a lovely name, I like it when people know we’re married, loads of people in work know you.’
I’ve always considered my Husband to be a really decent accessory- he’s a tidy bit of kit.  I’m proud to be married to him because he’s an amazing person but mainly because because he’s quite easy on the eye.  The thought of him venturing out looking like he’s been dressed by an autistic Gok Wan is making me die inside.
‘Don’t forget 1pm in La Cantina- I’ve left taxi money on the bookcase- all the Husbands and Wives are going so I’ll be really pissed off if you’re not there- I did email you about it yesterday.’
I don’t read his emails, they’re really fucking boring; He once sent me 800 words about the new adjustable desks being introduced at the firm’s new premises.   Since then I just reply ‘Ok, Love you’ to whatever he sends.
I hope to God I impale myself on a golfing Umbrella before midday.  RoadRunner- 1 Wiley Coyote- 0.