William Walkers First Year of Marriage by Matt Rudd Page A

in.
    ‘Hi, darling.’
    ‘You’re late.’
    ‘He was in a bad way, poor lamb. She meant a lot to him.’
    Three things are incredibly irritating in just these two sentences. One: if he was in a bad way, why did he choose a romantic cocktail bar to be in a bad way in? Two: poor lamb? Why is she saying ‘poor lamb’? It’s only one step away from ‘sweetheart’. Three: if the Moroccan girlfriend meant a lot to Alex, why did he dump her?
    I go with the last point.
    ‘If she meant a lot to him, why did he dump her?’
    ‘Because he knew he wasn’t right for her.’
    ‘I’m sorry?’
    ‘Because he knew he wasn’t right for her.’
    ‘You mean he knew she wasn’t right for him?’
    ‘No. She was right for him. He loved her but he knew she could find greater happiness with someone else. He released her.’
    ‘That’s one of the most ridiculous things I have ever heard. Are you drunk?’
    ‘We did have quite a few cocktails. Great bar. I’m going to take you there.’
    ‘I don’t believe this.’
    ‘Don’t believe what?’
    ‘This is ridiculous.’
    ‘What’s your problem?’
    ‘My problem is Alex. He is a slimy sleaze-bag. He’s got slimy hair and a slimy job and a slimy flat in a slimy street. He lives in Slimeville, County Slime, the United Kingdom of Slime. He dumped her because he’s a philandering slime-bag, and he grassed me up to the police for a crime I didn’t commit. He’s a bastard.’
    ‘Blimey. Is that all?’
    ‘No, I don’t trust him. I don’t want you seeing him any more.’
    It just came out like that and immediately I knew that I had crossed the line. I had issued a diktat. I should have stopped at slimy sleaze-bag. Or a bit before that. But I’d let it all build up for so long…and it had all come out in one misjudged rant. And ordering my wife not to see another man? That was proper Victorian stuff. I had pressed the red button, released the irreversible long-range missiles, dropped the hand grenade in the wrong hole. Why do arguments have a habit of doing that?
    EXPLOSION. ‘You don’t trust him? What about trusting me?’ Door slam. Silence except for the sound of a small voice in my headsaying, ‘You idiot, this isn’t a soap opera. Why didn’t you keep your mouth shut?’
    Then the door opens again.
    SPEECH. Along the lines of: ‘William, I love you very much. You are the man of my dreams, the first person I can call my soul mate. But you are also a dickhead. Alex and I have been friends since we were kids. He has been generous and loving and supportive all my life. I know he has a habit of irritating anyone I’m having a relationship with, but he’s also been there when I’ve been badly treated. And I’ve been there for him when he’s been in trouble. He is a friend and I’m not going to get rid of him because of your paranoia. You need to stop trying to control me.’
    To which I say something along the lines of, ‘But you’re trying to control me. You won’t even let me have sugar in my tea.’
    To which she shouts, ‘Me controlling your tea is not the same as you controlling who I’m friends with.’
    Another door slam.
    The Marmite Argument was nothing. The Lost Passport Argument was a mere bagatelle. As a hairline crack cuts its way from the top of the door to the ceiling, I am left in the smoking aftermath of what I now realise was the First Really Proper Argument of My Marriage. And surprise, surprise, it was entirely Alex’s fault. And maybe mine a bit as well.
Friday 22 July
    Never go to sleep on an argument, said some blue-stockinged spinster who’s obviously never had a proper late-night argument before. It is perfectly good advice if you have all your arguments in the morning. With a 10 a.m. argument, there’s plenty of time to huff about, cool off, apologise a thousand times, buy flowers (no carnations, no roses), make a self-deprecating joke, then apologiseanother thousand times and be back in the good books before bedtime.
    With an 11