I look good, and I’ve bought the most amazing cake from Sarika’s patisserie, all covered with almonds. It’s sitting in the boot in a beautiful cardboard box, and every time I even think about it my mouth waters. Matt’s parents are sure to love it.
Charm and bond is my mantra for today. Charm and bond. It’s all good.
And as for negatives…What negatives? There aren’t any!
Well, OK, maybe just a couple of tiny things. Teeny glitches. Sleep is the thing, really. I need sleep. I neeeed sleeeep. I’m actually rethinking the whole children thing. How do people have babies and get no sleep and not actually die?
I’m becoming almost phobic about Matt’s bed. I swear it gets harder and more plank-like every time we sleep there. I lie, staring at the ceiling, listening as he falls asleep, and then I doze a bit, but then I wake up in 3 A.M. misery. Even Harold can’t make me feel cozy in that bed.
Partly because he’s started sleeping on Matt’s feet whenever we stay there.
Which is…You know. It’s lovely. Obviously.
I’ll admit I was a bit surprised that first time I woke up and Harold was on the other side of the bed, snuggled up to Matt instead of me. But I absolutely don’t feel rejected or anything. My darling Harold can sleep where he likes.
However, it doesn’t help my sleep deprivation. At the moment we’re alternating nights at each other’s flats, and every so often we spend the night apart. Yesterday I tried to suggest to Matt that we sleep over at my place all the time. I didn’t mean he should move in, not exactly, I just meant…Anyway. Didn’t work. Matt looked a bit appalled and said he thought the arrangement worked well at the moment.
So the sleep is a problem. And I suppose there are a couple of other issues which have popped up. Tiny little annoyances which I never predicted. Like, Matt can’t relax in my flat. He keeps going around finding fault with it. Looking at things I never notice. The wiring is dodgy. (He says.) One of the radiators needs sorting by a plumber. (He says.)
And his obsession with security is driving me nuts. He still keeps going on about my lovely picturesque back door onto the fire escape, just because the wooden frame has gone a bit soft. He says it’s an invitation for thieves. Last time he came round, he actually started quoting crime statistics for the area. He wants me to either replace the door or buy six billion chains and padlocks, which would totally ruin the look.
I actually got a bit impatient with him. I said, “Look, Matt, you don’t get it. The whole point of that door is, you can go out whenever. You can sit on the fire escape and watch the sun set and play the saxophone and not have to unlock twelve padlocks first.”
Whereupon he asked if I play the saxophone, which is not the point. Obviously, I don’t play the saxophone; it was just an example.
Anyway. Then we went shopping together, and that didn’t go brilliantly. I thought it would be no big deal. Pop to the supermarket together! Stock up! Easy-peasy! I’ve seen other couples shopping in the supermarket. They calmly put things in the trolley. They chat unconcernedly. They say things like, “Shall I get the eggs?”
They don’t peer at each other’s items in disbelief as though they’re watching a Channel 5 show called Britain’s Weirdest Trolley Choices.
If there was a Venn diagram of my shopping tastes and Matt’s shopping tastes, I think we would overlap at recycled loo paper and ice cream. That’s it.
I mean, he buys crap. He just does. Terrible processed breakfast cereal. Nonorganic apples. Juice boxes. (Juice boxes.) I had to take everything out and replace it. And I was thinking, It’s so tragic that he just doesn’t care what he puts in his body…when suddenly he woke up in the wine section. I had put my usual bottle of white wine in the trolley. The one with the lady on the front (I can’t remember what it’s called). At which Matt blanched.
“No,” he said, taking it out. “No. Just no.”
“What’s wrong with it?” I said, affronted.
“Don’t skimp on wine. It’s better to have no wine than shit.”
“I’m not skimping!” I retorted. “That’s a nice wine!”
“Nice wine?” He looked scandalized. “Nice wine?”
Anyway. We had a bit of a discussion-slash-heated argument. It turned out that we disagreed on what was a