A spoonful of forbearance helps the divorce rate go down.
At some point over the past few months something changed about the way Harriet eats yoghurt. Now, every time she has breakfast, she leaves a small blob of Yeo Valley in the corner of her mouth. Nobody knows exactly when this started happening, or why. It might be age related — perhaps her facial muscles have started to deteriorate. It might be psychological, a subconscious pandemic urge to store food. Or maybe it's a more joyful thing. Maybe she's reached a point in life where she is no longer subject to the shallow aesthetics of society. If she wants to have a small blob of yoghurt in the corner of her mouth, she can.
It does make breakfast conversation difficult, though. She'll be talking about something important and I won't be concentrating because of the blob. Eventually I will interrupt the important thing and indicate that it has happened again, and she'll laugh and say: "Imagine what I'll be like when I'm 80." Imagine.
In related news, my favourite pair of pants has a plum-sized hole in the peritoneal area and sometimes I wear socks in bed. Harriet's favourite nightshirt is fashioned from a thick, floral terry-towelling fabric, the sort a 1970s granny would use to keep a teapot cosy. During our twenties I would never have worn socks in bed and she would never have worn a tea cosy, but those days are long gone. Bedtime is no longer a performance. We can be our real selves. That's what I'll tell the marriage counsellor, anyway.
I leave coins all about the house. Harriet hides the shopping bags nowhere about the house. I never shake the dog blanket properly. She never closes internet tabs properly. I have a white nose hair. She likes Coldplay. I never want to go out. She always wants to go out. I'm tired when she isn't. She's tired when I'm not. When was the last time I gave her a back massage? When was the last time she made me a cup of tea?