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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.
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