Quite often, as I charge around the house picking up more snotted-on lego blocks than I realised we owned, rogue pieces of spat-out toddler biscotti or remnants of gluey glitter because against my own better judgement I’ve guilted myself into an afternoon of craft, I start resenting the time my husband spends away from the circus we call ‘home’ working  and traveling.   It was worse each time we had newborns because the feed,change,rock-a-bye-baby-like-a-maniac cycle was relentless then and I counted minutes, not hours til my other half made it through the door. Some couples send messages to one another through the day along the lines of  ‘ooh, the things I’m gonna do to you later…’

I sent threats.

Especially when he ‘sloped off’ to the supermarket on the way home saying we needed leeks or courgettes but seeming to have been gone long enough to have fulfilled a probationary period in stacking shelves.

But if it weren’t for my husband’s slight addiction to supermarket foraging, I would probably have existed on coffee, air and some of those afore-mentioned pre-chewed sofa biscuits. That’s mostly still the case. So, sometimes, when I sit there stewing on when he is going to deign to come through the door, I need to be a bit more realistic about it.

WHAT I THINK HE IS DOING VERSUS THE REALITY:

THE DRIVE HOME/TO WORK

IN MY HEAD: My other half bombs along the motorway to a soundtrack of driving favourites including the Cardigans’ Favourite Game, window open if it’s a hot day, bobbing his head in the ‘car dance’. Everyone he meets along his journey is of a ‘Christian’ nature and lets him in where he needs to go. He arrives at the office and home again 80s movie style.

THE FAR MORE LIKELY SCENARIO: It’s the M62, not the California freeway. Most of the winter it’s freezing fog, the rest of the year it’s grey and when it’s sunny the last place he wants to be is inside a car on the way to work.

IN MY HEAD: Life’s a breeze. He saunters from a breakfast meeting with Danish Pastries and steaming hot coffee to a lunch meeting with platters of meats, treats and assorted exotic fruits. When meetings are over he sets his feet on his desk and ponders his fantasy football team.

THE FAR MORE LIKELY SCENARIO: After a negotiating his way through black ice and lorries on the M62 he pitches up at the office and seeks out a hot desk for the day. He has to source all his own coffee and sustenance, use his calculator a LOT and then get back on the open road, all the time knowing I’m at the door with a baby and a stopwatch.

LUNCH

IN MY HEAD: He strolls out into the sunshine, his jacket hung over his shoulder, whistling. He takes his pick from various delicious wares at local eateries then deliberates, cogitates and digests while reading Times online.

WHAT REALLY HAPPENS: He’s either on the road to another meeting so stops off for a pre-packed motorway sandwich with all the nutrition of a sock stuffed with lettuce, or it’s a Gregg’s pasty and a packet of crisps. He generally carries on working so he can’t remember what it was he ate anyway.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

STOPPING OFF AT THE SUPERMARKET

IN MY HEAD: He’s Gene Kelly with a shopping trolley. Not ready to face feeding time at the zoo home yet, my other half dreams up an ‘excuse buy’ so he can stop off at the haven of he local supermarket. He gleefully pulls off his tie at the door of the supermarket, whirls it round and skips through the supermarket whistling ‘it’s the most wonderful time of the year…’ occasionally stopping to sample what’s new in sun dried tomato paste, cheese or beer at one of those little pop up stalls they do. He saunters down aisle after aisle, overly perusing bacon, pickles, anything that offers him a few more minutes respite from home. Pure escapism.

MORE LIKELY: Driving home from a long day at the office he realises that if he doesn’t remember the key ingredient for tonight’s tea we may well be on a bowl of stale cereal. Though he needs a traipse through the wilting veg like he needs a hole in the head, he knows that’s not what two grown adults need to get through the winter, does the honourable thing and stops in for half a cucumber and a cabbage. Obviously he still stops off at the pop up freebie stall. He’s only human.

STAYING AWAY FOR A NIGHT

IN MY HEAD: He’s in a plush suite with a massive telly and a stonking jacuzzi bath. He either gets a steak and a good bottle of red in the hotel restaurant or orders up the best club sandwich he’s ever eaten then soaks in the tub, puts on a movie and reclines for the evening.

MORE LIKELY: He’s in a Premier Inn. Near an industrial unit. Miles from the town centre. They’ve only got minestrone soup left on the menu. The shower is tepid and he has a mountain of work to do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

GOING FOR A HAIR CUT

IN MY HEAD: He strolls down to the barber’s, maybe stopping off for a sausage sandwich and opts for a cut with a bonus head massage. He takes the long route home.

REALITY: He has a hair cut. Then comes home.

FITTING IN A GYM SESSION

IN MY HEAD: He bangs his tunes on then does a few half-hearted minutes on the treadmill. He rows, because he is a man and that’s what they do. He takes a seat and reads the magazines cover to cover. He enjoys a Mars Bar from the vending machine – he’s worth it. He has a long, hot power shower then strolls home, invigorated.

REALITY:  He does what everyone does in the gym. He gets his sh*t done then gets out of there. He feels just as tired when he comes out as he did going in. He’s forgotten what invigoration is.

Ever embellish on how green the grass is for your other half?

* Gene Kelly and Greggs bag images originally from Youtube, Successful test drive image originally from Freedigitalphotos (stockimages), Afternoon tea image from The Ritz, Premier Inn photo from TripAdvisor