Almost two years ago my husband, George, told me something I will never be able to forget. He said, You live so predictably that Im bored with you. Though George found our life dull, I was content with it. Each morning I rose early, ate breakfast, did my exercises and dressed for work. The first task of the day was to see George off, for he left for the office at the crack of dawn, and then I prepared myself. All our meals were cooked at home; I packed a secondbreakfast for both of us in tin containers. Every evening, on the way back, I stopped at the corner shop, then I cooked, cleaned and did the laundry. At night we watched a film and went to bed.
I was convinced I was right. Everything seemed perfect: George was wellgroomed and fed, the house was tidy and comfortable. What more could a wife ask for? Every Saturday I carried out a thorough springclean, baked something delicious and cooked a hearty supper. In the evenings we either entertained friends at home or headed out into town. Sundays were spent visiting our parents, half the day at one set of inlaws and the other half at the other. We helped them with chores, chatted over tea and relished the family time.
Our evenings were peaceful. We never argued or raised our voices. Harmony reigned in our little cottage. Then, one day, George declared that he was bored with me. He spent hours telling me he was dissatisfied, citing friends who lived the life partying, travelling, doing whatever they pleased. We dont even argue, he said, so why stay like this? And with that he simply walked out.
I was pleased with the life we had built and wanted no change. Yet, for Georges sake, I was prepared to do anything, even to transform myself. I started by revamping my appearance. I cleared my wardrobe, used the savings we had set aside for a new bungalow a tidy sum in pounds to buy a fresh range of clothes. I cut my hair short and dyed it a different shade, determined not to look boring. Then I switched jobs, leaving the ordinary clerical work for event planning. The new role opened a world of original entertainments.
A week later George returned, stunned by the woman he saw. From that moment I promised him a completely different way of living, and we kept that promise. We rarely stayed at home afterwards, always on the move, making new acquaintances wherever we went. Each night we found ourselves in a pub, a restaurant, a club, a friends flat or any other venue. We went camping, rode bicycles, paddled kayaks, and took weekend trips to other towns.
Months passed in our newfound, neverboring rhythm, and George began to speak of longing for quiet, for simply sitting at home. He missed homecooked meals and my cakes. I, however, no longer had a moment to linger at the stove. I had changed so much that George no longer craved my company.
The following week George announced he could not sustain such an active lifestyle. He wanted to return to the old, goodold days of calm, cosy evenings, visiting his parents on weekends and eating fresh, homemade food instead of reheated takeaway. By then I had grown accustomed to adult responsibilities and no longer wished to abandon the life I now loved. I cherished my previous routine, but I would not give it up now. When George insisted on restoring everything to how it was, a real storm broke out.
In the end his dream of a tidy, quiet household turned into chaos: dishes were smashed, neighbours called the police, and George packed his things and went to his mothers house, perhaps hoping I would revert to the woman I once was. That would have been too much. We are not characters in a film who can simply rewrite themselves. When George finally returned, he found divorce papers on the kitchen table and a note stating that I was bored of him and could no longer live with him.
