being nice to Hubby

Sorry, it has been a sociable old week and that's my excuse for laxity (or should that be laxness? dunno) in writing. We went out to a Thanksgiving dinner at someone's house on Thursday, kids too. Have you ever tried pumpkin cheescake? Apparently it is the dessert of the moment, and jolly nice in fact. Also went out on Friday, with another couple, and paid a fortune for a very mediocre meal (I think that they just upped the price because we were the only customers and therefore the only chance for making any money whatsoever that night).

Hubby is just wondering if people will read my blog when we get divorced and it takes a darker twist. He seems to think this is inevitable. He is in a gloomy state of mind (which I put down to trapped wind). He says I need to be nice about him, for a change. So here are three nice things about my husband:

1. He has nice eyes,

2. He is extremely good in a crisis, and

3. He makes a mean spaghetti bolognese.

I could list more, but he may read this, and it wouldn't do to put him in an overly strong emotional position, which he could exploit by demanding more Caribbean sailing trips (I think one is enough, don't you?).

The other night we popped into the Irish Bar for a quick one after the leather shop. What was so wierd about this was that it was like any Irish Bar anywhere in the world (except, perhaps, in Ireland), but with Nepali bar staff. Which I suppose shouldn't be odd, but you really could not tell you were in Kathmandu, what with the Man U match on the flat screen TVs, and the illuminated adverts for Murphy's. What was even wierder was how out-of-place I felt there, considering I used to live in pubs (literally: I lived above The Earl of Lonsdale on Portabello Road in 1994). I scuttled up to the nearest bar stool and glowered at all the drunk gap-year nineteen-year-olds who were all smoking and talking loudly and earnestly about nothing at all.

I sat, uncomfortable in my Gap jeans and pashmina, enjoying the free slice of chocolate cake that came with my hot toddy. The problem is, I'm a right old matron these days, and young people just strike me as cocky whippersnappers with ill-fitting clothes. Even though it barely seems a moment since I was myself a cocky whippersnapper with ill-fitting clothes (and questionable taste in men). Which I suppose brings me back to being nice about Hubby, as he was able to see through the whippersnapperishness, and realise that one day I'd leave the booze and fags and dodgy fashion choices behind, and blooming well grow up and get married and have kids.

Good on him (still miss the roll ups though).

Night xxx