Did You Manage to Eat?
Tired-More-Now-Than-Usual-Mam gets home.
From the house across the street that has, this evening, been mostly full of other young Mams, Chardonnay, nibbles and conversation regarding shoes, fluffy kittens, pretty sparkly things that make them feel all shiny and my total fantasticness in the fields of fatherhood, raw wit and intellect, searing sexual ability and sheer physical beauty - especially compared with their troll-husbands. I imagine.
She enquires about well-being of small people. I reply that both their heads are hanging by a single thread and their eyes have gone all boogly. As such, I have not been sure what to do.
Tired Mam informs me that this was not funny four years ago. And that it has not aged well.
'Did you manage to eat?' She asks.
I pause. This is a hugely loaded question. Did I manage to eat? Did I manage to eat?
It occurs to me for a second that Tired Mam has spent the evening unable to enjoy herself, plagued with mental scenarios involving me and our kitchen not unlike those in that episode of Father Ted when the house-keeper goes away for an evening and both men are found in the kitchen fiercely clinging to each other as all hell breaks loose wailing 'all I want is some tea' and both close to tears.
Did I manage to eat?
She has imagined me putting cutlery in the microwave to clean them. Of boiling flour. Of attempting to peel an onion with a spoon. Of mistaking olive oil for a refreshing drink and downing the lot. Of finally getting something on a plate only to be unable to eat it because I keep stabbing myself in the cheek with the fork. Of eventually being reduced to licking Country Life butter directly from the foil in order to sustain myself.
'Yes, I managed.'
Erm. The thing with olive oil did actually happen once.