Surely it can’t be time to take our young son to a panto. Oh, yes it is! Oh, no it isn’t…
‘A panto?’ I said, grimacing as if my wife had just announced our Sunday would be spent tasting new strains of Ebola. ‘Yes,’ she insisted. ‘And I agreed to this?’ I continued, in roughly the 7,000th iteration of that game where I insist that a long-standing appointment is complete news to me. ‘YES!’ she repeated, but with more patience than my crumpled, brow-beaten gaze deserved.
If I have a failing as a husband – and I must have at least one, surely – it might be my habit of forgetting things the second I’ve been told about them; things I don’t want to do most especially. Were I to have another, it might be laziness when it comes to doing things I don’t want to, like leaving the house on weekends.
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