I wasn’t sure what to expect when I got married. My own parents’ marriage had been a noisy and frightening sort of enterprise. I knew I didn’t want that. I knew I would have to compromise and negotiate and make sure that Penny and I “communicated”. However, every now and then you want something that you do not feel you can propose with an entirely open-handed honesty.
In 1998 what I really wanted was to go to a football match. In particular, I wanted to go the European Cup Winners’ Cup final in Stockholm. Penny has always been very generous in the freedom she has allowed me to roam around Europe drinking strange beers in support of my beloved Chelsea FC. The only reason I had to suppose that she might not be entirely happy this time was because the game was going to take place in the middle of the second week of our three week “holiday of a lifetime” in the States.
Stated out loud, the absurdity of the proposition was immediately apparent: “I want to fly from the US to Sweden and back again so that I watch a single game of football”. But I really really wanted to go. I decided that I needed to be cunning.
Penny came into the kitchen to find me gazing at a fixed point in the middle distance, apparently a broken man. My eyes were reddened by the tears I had been silently shedding. She was concerned and asked me what was wrong. I gave her a carefully constructed speech about how desolate I was that my team were on the verge of winning a European trophy and I would not be there. It might be the only chance in my lifetime. I conjured an image of my feeble dying frame convulsed with a last moment of regret as I slipped into the netherworld.
Penny is, as I’m sure you all know by now, a saint. She took my hand and told me that if I wanted to go I could. This is where the cunning plan kicked in. I looked balefully into her eyes and refused to go to the match. I couldn’t go. It would spoil the holiday. I would miss her too much. I would not hear another word about it.
A single giving of permission would never be enough. She might change her mind. I had to make sure that she had insisted I go sufficiently often and with sufficient vehemence that she could never later suggest that I had selfishly insisted on ruining the holiday. My evil scheme was ticking along like a swiss watch.
A week later I was overcome by grief once more. Once again she was quick to offer me the chance to go. Once again I declined. I had decided three times would be enough. Just another week to wait and then I could make my move. That Machievelli could learn a thing or two from me. I gave it 8 days just to be sure. P and I were in bed. I heaved a sigh which toppled books from the shelf on the other side of the room. Nothing. I sighed again, dislodging slates from the roof. Penny stirred. She asked me what was on my mind. I recounted once again my pain at not being able to go to the game.
“I know love, it’s a shame. Perhaps they will reach a final next year.”
What? That wasn’t right. I couldn’t pursue the matter there and then. I let 48 hours pass and tried again. Penny was just as sympathetic. She could see it was bothering me and she wanted to assure me that the holiday would be a memorable one. She advised me to just put it out of my mind.
By now I was in the grip of a panic. As Penny drove the car to a wedding that weekend, I all but poked myself in the eyes to encourage the sobbing. Penny was plainly beginning to worry that my mental health was failing.
“Is it the football again?”
“No NO … *sigh* yes yes love it is”
“You should go”.
My ears nearly popped with the release of the breath that I’d been holding. Just one more piece of feigned reluctance:
“If you are sure”
She reached out and laid a hand on mine and said with a considerable tenderness:Â “You should go”.
No time to waste. I immediately pulled from my pocket my mobile phone and hit the speed-dial button I had programmed for British Airways. Out came my passport; Chelsea season ticket and a printout of the flight details and within 2 minutes it was all fixed.
I sat back grinning with with satisfaction. I then became conscious that rather than focussing her attention on the road ahead as she should, Penny seemed to be staring at me. Staring at me very hard in fact. I could not help but notice that her face had entirely lost its sheen of indulgent affection.
But Penny is, as I have said, a saint. Rather than releasing my seatbelt and rolling me into a ditch from the speeding vehicle she made a mental note and moved on. So it was that as she disappeared down into the Grand Canyon on a mule I sped in a taxi to Flagstaff and boarded a plane that was trying to get airborne before a storm front engulfed the airport.
I learned two things:
(1) I have the best wife in the world; and
(2) Men are far too stupid to be trying to be cunning when their wives are around.