“Happy anniversary, love!” my husband declared grandly, presenting me with a vacuum cleaner. By morning, my “little gift” had left him speechless—just you wait.
Picture this, ladies. It was our twentieth wedding anniversary—the china anniversary, no less. Twenty years together—that’s no small feat, is it? Practically a lifetime.
Naturally, I’d been dreaming of something romantic. You know the sort—dinner at a posh restaurant, a weekend getaway, or at the very least, a bouquet of roses and some heartfelt words.
I spent the day fluttering around the house, setting the table, slipping into my best dress. Meanwhile, my husband, Edward, vanished early, muttering something about “errands” with a mysterious smirk. I was practically giddy with anticipation.
Then he returned, looking as pleased as a cat with cream. And in he marched, lugging two enormous boxes.
“Happy anniversary, darling!” he beamed.
He handed me the smaller one first. Heart pounding, I tore it open—only to find a vacuum cleaner. A brand-new, top-of-the-range, *washing* vacuum cleaner. Bloody hell. A *hoover*. For our *china* anniversary.
I stood there, clutching the box, utterly gobsmacked. Meanwhile, Edward—completely oblivious to my stunned silence—dragged the second, much larger box into the living room.
“And this,” he announced, ripping off the wrapping, “is our joint present!”
Out came a massive telly—wall-sized, state-of-the-art, the exact one he’d been drooling over for months. The cheeky git!
That evening, we were supposed to celebrate. Instead, I sat at the dinner table alone while Edward glued himself to his new telly, flicking through channels like an overexcited schoolboy. Between mouthfuls of my homemade salad, he grinned and asked,
“So, love, what do you think of my gift? Practical, eh?”
That word—*practical*—was the final straw. I wasn’t his housekeeper, his maid, his *domestic appliance*. I was his *wife*. Twenty years I’d stood by him, and he rewarded me with a cleaning tool while buying himself a toy.
Hurt? You bet. I felt less like a cherished wife and more like a glorified mop.
But I kept my cool. Smiling sweetly, I chirped, “Thank you, darling. It’s *perfect*.”
Too engrossed in his new toy, he missed the iciness in my voice. Oh, how he’d regret that oversight.
I barely slept a wink that night. A plan was brewing—devious, perhaps, but utterly deserved.
Tucked away in the wardrobe was an expensive bottle of cologne I’d saved for his gift. But after the hoover and that infuriating *practical* remark? No chance. He was in for a surprise of his own.
The next morning, I rose early. Edward was still snoring as I tiptoed to the cupboard and retrieved two neatly wrapped boxes. Into the first went a brand-new, gleaming bin. The second? A top-of-the-line plunger. Both tied with lavish bows, naturally.
When Edward shuffled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and clutching his coffee, I beamed and thrust them at him.
“Happy anniversary, sweetheart! These are for you!”
He eyed the boxes suspiciously before tearing them open. First—the bin, shiny and utilitarian. Then—the plunger, standing proud in all its rubbery glory.
His face? Priceless. He stood there, utterly baffled, bin in one hand, plunger in the other, his expression cycling between confusion and dawning horror.
“This… what?” he croaked.
“Your gift, dearest!” I trilled. “For the *man of the house*. Very *practical*, don’t you think? You’re in charge of bins and blocked loos, after all. Thought you deserved proper tools for the job!”
Silence. Then—the flush creeping up his neck, the clench of his jaw. It *clicked*. The hoover, the *practical* jab, the sheer thoughtlessness of it all. He’d seen himself in the mirror I’d so kindly held up.
By evening, he returned with an enormous bouquet of my favourite roses and tickets to the West End. As for the bin and plunger? They still sit in the cupboard, a silent monument to his *practicality*. And the best part? He’s taken the bins out without a single reminder ever since.
There you have it—even the most *practical* of gifts can have silver linings. Now, do share your own tales of marital mischief in the comments—I’d love a good chuckle!
