Obviously it wasn’t quite as green as she made out… at least not in a certain light. After all, she did specify a fresh one, rather than a ripe one. So she can’t complain.
Well, she can – and often does – complain.
Often the complaints are not necessarily about things that are not my fault.
At first, I do believe they are not my fault. But like those communist self-criticism meetings, eventually I do discover, through her thorough and expert analysis of all the factors, that it was – indeed – my fault all along.
Then it is just a matter of admitting my error and then we can move along towards the bright new golden dawn.
At least in theory.
For just like those re-education sessions, my crimes will lie on file waiting for the next time I fail to meet even her lowest expectations, much like my previous failure. After all, who knew there are so many different types of butter? Or that I would – as usual – invariably pick the wrong one. Not only that, the brand I picked, despite being on special offer – which is as far as I understand these matters, a criteria that overrides all other considerations – was not a brand we even countenance allowing into the house.
But still I have to learn from my mistakes, and having them pointed out each time I err.
Apparently, it is not the done thing to point out that she was the one who made the initial mistake of marrying an idiot.
Apparently there are wrong sorts of self-criticism too.
But anyway, at least we don’t have five year plans.
Or at least, so I thought.
It seems that we do.
At least in theory.
We are on the long march to some kind of nirvana, some sort of utopia. At least, as far as I can gather. Although, our utopia seems more to involve a better kitchen for the proletariat, rather than some unworkable state that tries to control everything and fails magnificently in even getting the butter – whether the right brand or not – into the supermarkets, so that the humble workers can send their husbands out to get it whenever necessary.
You can see the great noble vision in her eyes sometimes. A staunch and certain belief that somewhere out there lies a husband that is perfectible. One that always knows the right way to do things, knows which shops to go to and what to buy there and which is the best brand of butter. One who also knows what a woman wants beyond at least half his chips when she is ‘not that hungry’.
So the great project doesn’t so much march on towards that golden dawn. It sort of stumbles along blindly in the darkness, like that urgent trip to the toilet in the darkest hours of the night, where all the furniture is malevolent and there is a sleeping cat out on the landing.
Those great communist visionaries of the past, and – for some unfathomable reason – of the present, all saw their great visons crumble to dust, death and destruction.
She like them stares into the face of a reality that cares nothing for the wonder of utopian theory. She too sees that her great dream of a gleaming kitchen with a competent husband striding manfully towards that dawn hand in hand with her, is something that – like a dream – will never see the light of day.
No wonder she gets miffed every now and then.