Inevitably, because I have publicly spent quite some time lavishing delighted praise on my delighful husband, H decided that this would be as good a time as any to prove that he could, actually, behave like a 24-carat prick if he so chose.
You see, every couple has an Argument. The one you have a good few weeks (or, if you are lucky, seasons) after you move in together and then regularly, like clocks going back and forward, every few months, for the rest of your married lives. H and I had our Argument, and H behaved like a prize turd, and I behaved like a harpy, and I got so astonishingly frustrated and enraged I punched the newel post at the top of the stairs. Um. Next day I felt exceedingly glad that we hang hats and coats and scarves over said post. Imagine how many fingers I’d’ve broken if we hadn’t. As it is, I feel just a bit of a tit. Told everyone at work the next morning that I had slipped. Oh yes. Slipped. Luckily everyone else happily burbled wet pavement anecdotage without me having to add another word.
And the next evening H behaved like a royal idiot and we had the Argument all over again and H tried to make up for it by giving me a back massage at 2 am and then he snored for the shattered remnants of the night and I am now so utterly sleep-deprived I want two thirds of a bottle of gin and a mug of cocoa with brandy in it and five hot-water-bottles and for H to sleep in, ohhh, Timbuctoo or somewhere.
Yes, we have kissed and made up. But the snoring.
Sex is a sore subject for any couple trying to get knocked up. In our case, I am quite keen on a) sex, b) H, and c) the idea of getting knocked up. Ideally, I’d like to be at it three or four times a week. Especially in the lead-up to ovulation, when, for no doubt sound hormonal reasons, I find myself acting like a cow on heat (did I tell you about the time our cow tore throught he electric fence to get at the neighbour’s bull?). H, meanwhile, is merely keen on sex. He insists he’s very keen on me and on getting me pregnant, but his ideal is about once a week. Maybe twice. After all, we’ve been together for 16 years. The novelty can safely be said to have worn off a little.
As we are trying to get (ooh, ooh, and stay) pregnant, I win the sex frequency argument. At least for those happy days of mind-bending uncertainty when Satsuma bounces about like a cat on a leash and pretends that she’d going to ovulate any moment now for weeks on end. H, however, from time to time, reacts to my (PERFECTLY REASONABLE, she shouted) advances with all the enthusiasm and cheer of a good-natured but much-tried man presented with a bucket of bleach, an armpit-length rubber glove, and directions to the blocked drain in the back yard. I have taken to responding to his response by, variously, bursting into tears, shouting, sarcasm, emotional blackmail, developing a strong conviction I must be the most hideous and unalluring woman in Britain, and now, clearly, punching inanimate objects.
Whenever some poor harrassed woman complains in my presence that her husband wants sex all the damn time and it’s just SO annoying, no matter how sympathetic I feel towards her, I also feel just a smigeon of jealousy. And sympathy for the deprived husband too. Sorry.