Saturday, 29 May 2010

The Worst Thing To Say To Your Wife Before Going Out & Other More Public Relationship Problems

I do wish The Boss wouldn't phone me on Saturdays. Or, at least, not ten times and not to say the same thing on every occasion. even if he is enjoying the David Laws story rather too much. I'm too busy worrying about the night out Max has planned, even if it is my fault for complaining that we never do anything.

Now he tells me that we're going to meet his colleagues at a bar which coincidentally happens to be Josh's favourite drinking place. This is not promising, as it means that all the women there will be significantly younger than me, if not under-age; and there'll be acres of highly-toned flesh scattered with strategically-placed piercings.

As a result, I have no idea of the dress code, so I ask Max's advice.

"What do you think I should wear?"

"Oh, anything, darling. You always look nice."

This feels like shorthand for I can't be bothered to think about it, and is no help whatsoever. I try on one outfit - too dated. Another causes mutton and lamb to spring to mind. My knees seem to have become baggy overnight. The next option is too low-cut. When did my chest develop wrinkles? It's as if someone stopped working on the Forth Bridge for a week or so, and the whole thing just imploded.

Eventually, all my clothes are in a heap on the bed, and we are already late. I cobble together a combination designed primarily for invisibility, and then slap on my make-up.

Never experiment when you're under pressure. I decide to try out a sample sachet of foundation I found in one of Connie's magazines, which causes hundreds of new wrinkles to erupt. I wash it off again.

Connie phones, Dad phones, and Mum phones. One eye is still without make-up, and it's almost 9:30pm.

"How does this look?" I ask Max. He doesn't move his eyes from the television.

"Fine, darling." Oh, honestly! I have a large gin.

Then Max looks at his watch, says "Christ!" and rushes upstairs, shouting "What do you think I should wear?"

I am still sulking at his use of fine, so say, "Anything will do - you always look nice."

This is rapidly revealed to be untrue. Max puts on everything he owns that is not dirty, which results in a strange, multi-seasonal mix of linen, denim, and wool - all in varying and un-complementary shades of washed-out black and navy.

It takes him a further ten minutes to find his shoes under a pile of smelly laundry. By now. it's 10:30pm, and I decide to lie on the couch and watch television instead. I suspect my partying days are over.

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