I am now fifty-seven years old, and it feels as though I’ve been drifting through the years like a lost feather on the wind. My husband and I have been legally wed for over three decades, all that time folded into a blur of laundry, roasts, and arranging cushions just so. We share two children, both of whom I shepherded through school and taught to mind their Ps and Qs. Ive always dashed through life, chasing after odd jobs and working long hours so the children could have nice shoes and never felt out of place amongst their mates.
Through all these years together, my husband rarely got his hands dirty, and when he reached pension age, he settled in his armchair and surrendered to the telly, refusing to work at all. I soldier on, still clocking in at the office, picking up the grandchildren after school, and keeping the house ticking.
Ive begged him to get some sort of job, even at the local pub or as a night watchman. His answer is always that were doing fine without his wage. Hes no daft fool, he says, and goes about polishing off the roast potatoes before I even see them. Some evenings I stagger home, only to find hes wolfed down the good stuff and left a single sad bowl of soup for me.
Once, after a chat with a mate over a cup of Earl Grey, I was advised to cook separatelybuying economy ingredients for him, and keeping the better bits for myself. So, I came home and spun a tale about the doctor insisting I start some diet, meaning he wasnt to touch my meals.
Now, I stash the biscuits and cakes in the wardrobe, and when my husband pops off to the shed, I sip my tea and nibble secret chocolates. I conceal the posh cheddar and the fancy ham deep in the fridge where hell never look. Were lucky enough to have two fridgesone for everyday fodder, and another for jars of chutney and jams, and its in that second fridge I hide my supplies.
You know men, they never notice a thing. For myself, I buy prime turkey and steam delicate cutlets, while the pork leftover past its best gets tossed with strong spices for him, and hes none the wiser. He gets the cheapest pasta you can buy for pence, while I treat myself to proper durum wheat.
I dont reckon theres anything wrong with my ways. I dont think myself wicked. If hes after decent food, let him put in a shift, instead of sinking into his chair all day. At our age, divorcing seems daft, since most of lifes already gone by and weve a home togetherwhy sell and split the money in half now?
