 |
| (Not my bed; Not my ladies) |
I’m currently writing this whilst enjoying an afternoon in bed with three ladies.
Not that I like to boast about my lifestyle or anything, but I do share my home, and my life with three females. Just the three and me.
Yeah, baby.
Two of the ladies in question are cats; Marge and Butty. They might be sisters, mother and daughter, or not related at all. The rescue people we got them from weren’t sure. One is very hairy, the other is short haired. Butty, the hairy one, is so named because she regularly uses her head as the front end of a battering ram. She will deliberately ‘butt’ into things, mostly Marge. Apart from this habit she is very laid back and seems almost stoned all the time. Or if not stoned, she’s just a bit slow, poor thing (Maybe it’s all the battering ram action?). Marge is named Marge partly because it kinda goes with Butty (like butter I guess), and partly because she is always desperate for food and eats much more than Little Britain’s Margery Doors of ‘Fat Fighters’.
The third and most important female sharing my bed and my life is a female human. Somehow or other after a life of false attempts and finding wrong-uns (well, more so on my part), we accidentally discovered each other and realised we were near perfect for each other in every way. Ahhh. And it’s been like that ever since. In many ways, although we would have both been different people, and needed the sum of our experiences and catastrophic failures in order to make us the people that we both are and enjoy, it would have been nice to have been childhood sweethearts and lived happily ever after, instead of having all the other baggage as well. But, we are who we are and where we are.
Recently, I’ve been dealing with a lot of older gentlemen, say in their mid 50s on average. Strangely, most of them had been in more or less the same job with the same organisation for 20 to 25 years. And, most of them were married to the same person they’d been married to since their very early 20s.
Now, I don’t know if it’s bravado on their part, but they don’t seem to actually ‘love’ their wives. In fact, there is almost a disgust about them when they speak about them. So many things about their wives seem to really annoy them. Indeed, they don’t seem to ‘like’ them at all either. So much so that they are happy to go to the pub without them, or play golf, or for ‘the missus’ to go and stay with her sister, or have a night out at bingo, or do anything that avoids them spending time together.
And when they do spend time together they sit not really communicating but watching TV, and maybe having the occasional squabble about something trivial.
So, why the feck are they still together? I’m guessing it comes down to habit and convenience. They have been together for so long they know nothing else. And to separate would mean the loss of a home and all its comforts. But, in exchange for this, they appear to put up with so much that they really don’t like and are constantly miserable. Or so it seems.
Or, is it, as I mentioned earlier, all just bravado? Is the truth that they love and adore the person they are with as much as I do the person I’m with? Is it just not something that men can admit to other men?
That wouldn’t explain the desire to spend time apart, though. So, maybe I’m more right when I suggest that all they have with their ‘other half’ is habit and convenience. That seems an awfully miserable life to me.
England's England 