Pay no heed to me when I write scathingly about Himself...he's a willing enough target and isn't anything like as awful as I portray him to be...except when he tells me something for the millionth time or looks vague when I announce yet another of his relatives ended up in the Workhouse and swears he never had an Auntie called Maud when she's on the feckin census form and then says...but we always called her Maudie. And I give him a withering look and tell him I'll not be looking after him when he's really potty. He'll have to go in a Home.
He went all over twitchy at lunchtime because I mentioned...in passing...over the cheese and biscuits...that I need to do some more graveyard exploring, not having been able for scrambling over dead bodies for quite a while...he suddenly thought of something terribly urgent to do outside and disappeared for the rest of the afternoon.
There is a particular tiny burial ground which I have my eye on as being worth a visit ...and another one across some fields, which probably has huge slavering beasts in them, that is the site of an old Nunnery and has a couple of Black and Tans graves...I could manage to get there now with my oxygen. Wouldn't be able to run from the cattle though...but Himself could fend them off with a stout stick if need be.
The portable oxygen makes the difference between my thinking it's some sort of joke to suggest I ramble about while trying not to fall into crypts...and happily lugging the tank and my bag with camera and notepad etc and not much caring if it's lashing down with rain...
You see, Himself can be awkward and stubborn and he talks to himself under his breath and forgets stuff and checks he's locked the front door about a hundred times at bedtime and then checks again just to make certain...but he makes me cups of tea in the middle of the night when I can't sleep and remembers to get strawberries when he goes to the shop and makes my bed up on the settee and boils the water for the oxygen condenser and always does the washing up...even when it's cold and a bit greasy...
He's very kind to animals and old people and small children and knows how to tease my friends so they don't take offence...he's never knowingly unkind or thoughtless...except when the strimmer is fired up and ready to kill everything in its path...he isn't a bigot and doesn't drink to excess or gamble away his pension on the horses. And he never grumbles if supper is an hour late because I've been absorbed in doing something else...
I'll continue to regale you with tales of pulling up all the London Pride 'cos he thought it was a weed and setting up my nebuliser but not switching it on at the plug...of when he peers hopefully at the washing machine dials and then boils everything to oblivion with twice as much powder as needed and wonders why his socks would fit a newborn baby and that bright pink towel has dyed all the dishcloths...
But you see...Himself is my best friend...my companion...and my husband...I'm allowed to grumble sometimes.