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July 31, 2012

 

 

She’s going to ask me

if she looks ok.

How do I know?

Because she’s asked me the

same question every day for

nearly thirty years.

Some days she looks a bugger,

but I keep that thought to myself,

and just say ‘Oh, you look fine dear’.

It’s the safest route to take on this

familiar, tightrope walk.

Some days she’ll test me and say

‘But I thought you didn’t like me in red?

Quick as a flash I reply with,

‘Oh, there’s so many shades of red,

but that one’s alright on you’,

whilst at the same time, I find myself

fighting with my sub-conscious,

and biting my tongue to stop from

blurting out ‘Where’s your bloody reindeer?

My worst dread of all is when she walks

back indoors after having been to the

hairdressers. Sometimes she looks like

she’s not even been there, whilst other

times, on days when she’s ‘felt like a change’,

as she puts it, I’ve had to sneak into my office

to cancel Dinners we were due to attend, as

she’s looked like a prize rooster or a runaway

from a travelling circus. Other times I’ve even

feigned sudden stomach ache, or worse, so as

not to be seen out on the street with her, like

last week when she copied our teenagers and

came home with half of her hair coloured black

and the other half white blonde?

I suffer dreadfully with my nerves and I have

ulcers too, but on the whole we are very happy –

honestly, no I mean it, we’re ok together.

I wouldn’t dare say otherwise!

 

 

 

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