An Alternative Love Story

With the last dying breaths of the hen do on Sunday morning came an injection of pizzazz, a boost of energy, a burst of joie de vivre... drum roll please for the arrival of The Husband! You may not think that a person who has just travelled for thirty hours straight, on three different flights and across England in a car would be in any way sprightly but I can assure you that The Husband was. He was grey of pallor, with shopping bags under his eyes but was beaming from ear to ear and full of energy. Too much energy. It was akin to someone being mildly intoxicated – you know, that happy buzz you get when you love everyone and are the life and soul of the party before you crash and burn, ending up slumped on the floor with your head in the toilet. I was slightly concerned that he shouldn’t be driving in his sleep-deprived, delirious state but as he was the only one insured on the car, there wasn’t much I could do but smile and make sure that he kept his eyes on the road and his hands on the steering wheel. Besides, there was no way I could have persuaded him to part with the keys of his beloved new toy. Having been told that the VW Golf he had ordered was not available, he managed to blag himself a sweet deal on a VW Scirocco, a compact sports car that, in technical terms, can go very fast very quickly. And he certainly made sure that he made full use of that ability. Even if we were only going a couple of hundred metres to the next set of lights, he would power through the gears, sending my head crashing against the head rest each time.

And thus the joy and excitement, hugs and kisses, upon seeing him again after three weeks apart descended into arguments within about five minutes of being in the car with each other. I tried hard not to, I really did. After all, he had just travelled half-way across the world on the journey from Hell but had immediately jumped in a car and driven all the way from Heathrow to Bath to pick me up. But honestly, if you were getting thrashed about in a car first thing in the morning (or, let’s face it, any time of the day) would you not have something to say to the driver? “But it’s fun,” he argued, looking at me with puppy dog eyes, “I never get to drive a car like this.” Oh well, I eventually thought, let him have his fun, he’ll get bored of it after a couple of days. Let me tell you something I have now learnt about men – they never tire of putting their foot down hard on the accelerator. Fact. They also never tire of showing off their pride and joy to other men (even if it is only a hire car and therefore not technically theirs). Every male friend and relative we stayed with got a personal guided tour of the car and, as a treat at the end, they even got to sit in the passenger seat. The passenger seat I hasten to emphasise, never the driver’s seat. If they were really lucky, they even got a drive in it – again, with The Husband driving and not under any circumstances them. I am not exaggerating when I say that The Husband was obsessed with this car. If he could have divorced me and married his Scirocco he probably would have done. As it was, he merely had a two-week passionate affair with it. He quite openly said to me that he would rather buy this car than have a baby.

Men are strange, unfathomable creatures.

The Husband's Bit On The Side