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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?