Oh yeah, this is it! My wife went away for the weekend! HERE WE GO!!!! Into the crushing realisation of how empty my life is without her. Dammit. And just for a couple of days I get to relive the squalid and pointless existence I had before I met her. I mean there must have been some good times back in those carefree single days, but most of the times were like the time I had today: a bit lonely, unfocused and lazy.
And for a day or two that can be OK. I had my first evening in just watching random TV for a long time. I used to do this all the time. I didn't really enjoy it. I comfort ate and I eyed up the bottle of whisky on my shelf thinking it might be nice to have a glass or two, even though I haven't had a drink since we got back from holiday and I haven't missed it at all. It was pathetic.
And this sense of ennui came about even though she's just in East Anglia for two days. Imagine if she died or worse if she left me for someone else. My life wouldn't be worth living. Luckily she's younger than me and I will probably die first, so I don't have to worry about that too much and also I am quite the catch so it's hard to even consider that she might be tempted by another when she has such a prime example of manliness at home (why eat burgers when you have steak at home? Becuase just eating steak gets boring and sometimes you just fancy a burger even though you know it's not good for you. And at least if you eat a beef-burger you are staying faithful to the basic meat that you have committed to, so you don't have to feel too bad about it - all right, that wasn't a good analogy).
I am not sure this is even a romantic thought. After less than six years I have reached a point where I am so addicted to my wife that if she even goes for 48 hours my life falls apart and I sit around in my dressing gown failing to work, eating bagels and questioning the point of living. That's tragic not lovely.
I am so dependent that I don't have the first idea how to even get out of the house, let alone anyone to go and see. What I am saying is that my wife has basically kidnapped and imprisoned me in my home and just because it's within the bounds of matrimony there's nothing anyone can do about it. And in a classic case of Stockholm Syndrome I mourn for and miss my captor when she is not around to keep an eye on me, but keep myself voluntarily locked in the house. She's left her cats to guard me anyway. I know that they will telepathically let her know if I step out of line.
It was a sad and tawdry and wasted day, but it reminded me that this could have been the rest of my life had my wife not taken pity on me. So maybe it is romantic after all.
Oh yeah..... please come back to me.
Robin Ince has begun writing his blog on a daily basis. I think he might have managed three whole entries in a row now, which is very impressive. His blogs do seem more considered and clever than mine, but it's not what you do with it, it's how long it is that matters and my blog is rapidly approaching its 4000th consecutive entry, so I am the best.
His blog today, about revisiting his grandparents' home is worth a read - evocative and I suspect rather familiar to us all, even down to the details of soap and toilet paper. My paternal grandparents also had that greaseproof paper medicated toilet roll (that I seem to recall also being used in the first schools I went to). It filled me with fear and revulsion as being greaseproof, even to me as tiny child, seemed to be one of the attributes that you would attempt to eradicate in something used for this function. I don't know if it was cheaper than soft paper rolls or medicated in some way, but it was not really fit for purpose. As Robin says talking about this was once a comedy staple (though I like his point that it is now too far back into history to work as observational comedy as many of you won't have experienced it), so I won't bang on about it as it's all been said before, but I found it interesting how little what we consider to be personal experiences differ from everyone else's. This is why comedians and mediums (the two most disgraceful jobs on the planet) can ply their trade. We assume we're individuals, but we're all the same. Right down to our grandparents' toilet paper (but why would they choose to have that in their house - they were adults, they could have bought whatever they wanted) and our desire to search out the ghosts of the past by returning to old homes. I wrote a blog about that in 2010.
The first episode of my new "We're All Going To Die!" podcast is now up for FREE on the British Comedy Guide and iTunes
