Just sometimes stuff drives me crazy...I put a runner out on the table today and Himself peered at it and said it was nice...and I said it was certainly. And he asked when I'd made it...and I said I hadn't...it had been a present from an American friend on Multiply and I've had it for maybe four years...and he said...Oh...I haven't seen it before. So I gave him a withering look.

Then the other day we passed a lovely flowerbed with enormous clumps of those beautiful while Arum lillies and Himself pointed them out and said how lovely they were and I told him he'd strimmed my huge clump of Arum lillies right down to the ground...and the Moth Mullien...and he said...Oh.

Himself will happily eat cheese and onions and tomatoes...but if I give him a pizza and salad for his supper he pokes and prods it and leaves almost all of the lettuce but eats the spring onions and then burps for the rest of the evening...

He does like the shawl I knitted from pure wool and dyed a stunning shade of blue with the Woad I grew in the garden...but he strimmed all the Woad down before it seeded so now I don't have any at all...I stuck canes beside the tiny babies who were struggling to grow and he pulled them out 'cos they would have broken the strimmer line...not the Woad babies...the canes.

Now he does make the bed up with clean linen...it makes me huff and puff if I do it you see...but he leaves all my pillows...I have loads of pillows...he leaves my pillows in a heap on my bedside chest...so when I go to bed I have to arrange them all and then he says he didn't like to do it 'in case he did it wrong'...in the winter-time when we have lots of blankets and quilts...he tucks acres of blanket under the end of the bed so there's nothing at the top and I heave and pull and struggle to get them up around my waist...never mind getting them as far as my neck...then he says he does that 'cos of the dog. So, I give him another withering look.

And he is awfully good about filling my hotwater bottle and does it every cold night without a murmur...but he screws the top on so feckin' tight I have to get a clamp thing to open it in the morning just to get the water out and I've said...don't screw the top so tight...so he unscrews it a lot and then it leaks in the night and I wake up thinking I've wet the bed.

Presents for his children are chosen, bought, wrapped, and sent by me. Every time...every year. Then if I happen to be a bit late he'll chivvy me and say it's so and so's birthday soon and have you bought a present yet and then he'll huff and puff until it's wrapped and addressed...but he'll be the one who goes off happily to the Post Office carrying the parcel and come back with the receipt tucked into his wallet...

When I was in the hospital Himself had to feed the dogs...and he still does and that's fine and not a problem. But he doesn't wash their dishes. I find a heap of bowls with congealed pasta and something horrible out of a tin in a sort of wodge round the rims and he just puts the next evenings food into the grotty dishes until I whip them away and soak them for most of the day to get the grunge off...when I point out it would be a good idea to wash their dishes once in a while...he says...Oh.

Another thing is the washing. Now Himself likes hanging out the washing...we all have our little quirks and that is one of his. But he hangs it out all wrong...there'll be a t-shirt and then a pair of knickers and then a towel and I itch to go straight out there and put all the towels together and all the T-shirts together and so on...and he hangs jeans over the line instead of pinning them down by their legs so they take ages to dry 'cos they all sort of bundled up...but he hangs my leggings by their bottoms so they stretch big enough to fit someone ten foot tall...and he uses those grotty ancient clothes pegs that have gone rusty and manky so they leave nasty marks on the pillowcases and when I say we've brand new clothes pegs in a bag near the back door he says...Oh.

And he refuses point blank to eat pasta...says it doesn't taste of anything...I gave him a tiny spoonful from my plate once and he shuddered...so I have to cook fat laden sausages from very sad pigs for him and pasta with a delicious cheesy sauce and herbs for me...and when I make my signature dish of lasagne which everybody who comes to supper wolfs down and asks for more...Himself picks at it mournfully and heaves heavy sighs and then pushes his plate away or...worst of all...puts in on the floor for the nearest dog...Reuben always looks at him aghast when he does that 'cos he'd eat thirds of my lasagne...if it wasn't for T giving him a withering look...

Maybe I ought to actually go and cook some supper...see what's in the freezer and throw something together...