Last weekend, my wife and I made our way to her parents place for a classic English Sunday roast, expecting nothing more exciting than a spirited debate over whether Yorkshire puddings belong on every plate. But, oh, how wrong I was.
We gathered round the table, exchanging pleasantries and poking fun at each others football teams, when like a bolt from the blue my wife brought up the thorny topic of my job. It wasnt entirely out of the blue, to be fair. Theres been a longstanding family dream of building a swimming pool in my parents back garden. Weve been talking about it for ages, and this year, my wife declared theres no point in putting it off any longer.
On top of that, we planned to swap our beloved, but thoroughly worn-out, Ford Fiesta for something a bit more reliable before the winter ice sets in. And next summer, we hoped to finally take a trip to Brighton Beach, since we hadnt seen the sea in three years. Not to mention, in our little family unit, I was the only one bringing home the bacon.
Now, I actually like my job (Im not grumbling, honestly). But recently, the companys hit a patch of rough weather: redundancies all round, and those lucky enough to still be there got a pay cut that doesnt look set to go away any time soon.
I mentioned that we had some savings squirreled away, but itd only stretch to a rather modest seaside getaway and, with a bit of luck, a car thats as basic as tea and toast.
My wife, meanwhile, decided that the pool at her parents house took precedence over anything we had planned. I wasnt exactly thrilled by this attitude, and things quickly escalated. She threw around words like lazy and suggested I find a new position so wed have money for absolutely everything under the sun.
And then, at the dinner table, the conversation went round in circles, as it always does. I couldnt hold my tongue any longer. I pointed out (rather sharply, I admit) that her parents already enjoy a healthy dose of financial support from us every month. In a fit of pique, I blurted out that the evenings roast was practically served at my expense.
Was that wise? Probably not. But once the words were out, there was no turning back. At that point, my plate was sporting a distinctly sour soup, and my wife launched into an impassioned monologue. She was so thoroughly offended that I heard a whole new set of grievances about myself fascinating stuff, really. I didnt stick around to hear the encore; I quietly gathered my coat and headed back home.
Once there, I packed up my wifes things and dropped them off at her parents house. In my view, such nonsense shouldnt be aired, nor should one behave in that manner simply unacceptable. Now Im back at my own place, utterly stumped, staring into the middle distance. To sum up, I havent a clue what to do next.
