By Ingleman

Best of Friends

We had a raised voice row today. I hate it. We want so much of the same things, Simple pleasures. But it's always me, who puts the spanner in the works. Always me who wants to step outside the square. Do something different.

We are building an extension. Up to our eyes in muck, cement, dust everywhere. She has not complained once. But I know how much she hates it. Didn't want it in the first place, really.

Then I convince her to come with me to see a car. A truly beautiful, twenty year old car. She loves it, and says it's the one for me. I agree, completely.

But I won't commit.


I don't know I say. We row. Horribly.

It's all too confusing, is it right or wrong. I don't know. I would hate to make a mistake. It would be too costly.

So we sit in agitated silence. She opens a bottle of wine and makes inroads. I, begrudgingly, join in.

Glug, suddenly everything crystallises. Wow, how is it that when you are stone cold sober, and angry nothing makes any sense. Then, a few glasses of some Vinot Collapso and it all becomes clear.

Say yes, and blow the quincequonces. 

And we are talking again, befuddled and glassy eyed, we are once again the best of friends. 

I wonder how we we will feel in the morning. Gary starts farting about again with trowels and compo, at 08.00 sharp. I wonder if the cold light of day will change things again... 

Oh what a wangled teb weave we..... 

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