According to sources close to your wife, which during the last five seconds have have been positively identified with her mother, Lurpak is on sale at 40% off in Asda this week. The news emerged in a phone call that woke you 40 seconds ago from a dream about Little Mix playing netball in blue pleated skirts at two minutes past six, for fuck’s sake.
‘She just found the ads from the local paper last week and wanted us to know,’ your wife sighs. Reports suggest that your wife is now in a bit of a bind because she does agree that her mother should stop phoning at the crack of bloody dawn and wouldn’t have minded another half-hour in bed herself but cannot be seen to take your side in any incipient argument.
Analysts now agree that there is growing tension between the part of you that wants to say her mother has been to your town seven times this year – and trust you, you have counted – and she should know there isn’t a bastard Asda for miles around and anyway her local paper isn’t yours is it?, and the part of you that wants to avoid getting the relationship lecture again. The likelihood of this conflict erupting with potentially catastrophic consequences for your sanity has been exacerbated in the last few seconds by your wife’s observation that she knows you’ve never liked her mother.
You have correctly sensed that saying ‘Yes, I told you that myself several hundred times’ is a trap. However, saying that you might as well make some tea then in an aggrieved manner so as to avoid losing the battle while also leaving a silent-but-deadly as you exit the room, is not a viable exit strategy either, especially given that your wife’s last ex-boyfriend, who is now a heart surgeon and coining it in, would apparently have got up and made the sodding tea long before 6.02 and without having to be asked.
At press time, it remained unclear as to whether you would press your temporary moral advantage home at the risk of seeing if your wife really meant that she doesn’t want you to go to her mother’s at Christmas. Weighing up the pros and cons of eating at someone else’s expense and going to a match on Boxing Day against staying at home alone and not having to look over your shoulder while using the PC for three full days may need to be outsourced to a consultant.
‘We don’t even buy bloody Lurpak,’ you add on your way downstairs. ‘Fucking hell.’