You do know, dear people, that H farts and gets spots on his arse, even though the sun shines out of it? You do realise this, don’t you? Because, honestly, the love-fest going on in the comments recently, you’d think the man sweated eau-de-cologne and turned water into cider every Saturday (and I swear, it’s STRICTLY the other way about).
The thing is, when H was growing up, his Mum may have done most of the hoovering and nappies, but his Dad did most of the cooking and a lot of the toddler-wrangling. H grew up under the impression that house-work was, you know, work. Around the house. That needed doing. By whoever was least likely to lie down on the floor and scream during it. H takes the rubbish out, does more washing-up than I do, is more likely to hoover and clean kitchen surfaces. I am more likely to scrub the toilet or the bath, cook, tidy up (I hate this like poison, but I do it because, to be honest, most of the flipping mess is mine too), change the sheets. We are equally likely to do laundry, but I am more likely to hang it out as I get PECULIAR about the order socks and bras are hung in. H is more likely to do the big supermarket run every weekend, I am more likely to do little top-up shops during the week (for those ‘darling, we’re out of bog-roll and mayonnaise’ moments). But nothing is set in stone. And we negotiate. If you wash up, I’ll cook. If you go to the supermarket, I’ll clean the bathrooms. If I make the bed and take the rubbish out, will you make me tea?
None of which alters the fact that H is positively angelic when faced with a minor crisis or ailment. ANGELIC, people. Say you happen to have a headache, and your period is coming on like a razor-edged cannon-ball of doom. H will make you tea, fill you a hot-water-bottle, find the ibuprofen, sit you in front of Mastermind and cook you dinner. Say you are at your parents and four people mysteriously turn up for lunch and your mother is having a minor nervous breakdown about the state of the kitchen and emptiness of fridge. She will take a deep breath, brace herself, enter said kitchen, and there will H be, finishing the washing up and cheerfully saying he has defrosted enough soup for everyone and picked some tomatoes and there’ll be enough bread if we put oat-cakes out as well.
My mother loves H with the passion of a thousand fiery suns.
Also, H laughs at my jokes. All my jokes. Even the cretinous and unoriginal ones.
I feel I now absolutely have to point out that H is as dense as any man when it comes to Emotions And Weird Girly Shit Like That. He can deal with washing up and period pain, because they are Obvious and Have Solutions. H likes solving problems very much indeed. But having an emotion is… weird. And strange. And unpredictable. And the rules keep changing and there IS no solution. Also, emotions just turn up for no reason. They cheat. And how is a chap supposed to know that muttering darkly and kicking the furniture is indicative of bad mood in the first place? Honestly.
And his main tactic when faced with a talk, argument, discussion, or even bloody row, is to go mulishly on the defensive and stay there, even when I haven’t even accused him of anything, and especially when I am absolutely right and perfectly justified. Which drives me from Mildly Irritated But Rational to Psycho-Bitch With Teeth in seventeen seconds (though he learnt very very early on that telling me I was only annoyed because I had PMT was… foolish).
But on the whole, well, yes, the sun, should you be wondering where it does go on gloomy days, is chez H’s undercarriage.