Down and Out.

Hubby’s voice is weary and worn these days. Ever buoyant with regards to the Royal Navy- his workload and general lifestyle is finally getting to him. A twelve hour stint at the office followed by a tin of soup – never a proper dinner, rounded off by a couple of hours of studying for his Msc. is enough to make any man a little disheartened.
“Are you ok?” I asked him on the telephone, a little alarmed by his dejected tone.
“Oh just tired Alice. I’ve a lot on and a lot of people to make happy”.
“Have a drink tonight. Chill out”. My attempts to chivvy him up a bit are fruitless.
“Makes you wonder how Bill Clinton and various others had time for extra curricular activities if you get my gist”. I sense a weak smile break out on the other end of the phone
“Maybe the in tray at the White House wasn’t quite as toppers as mine. Besides I’m too broke for infidelity.” Ah money, ever the bone of contention between us, although this time he has a point, my chip and pin card having been spat out with disgust in Somerfield this week.
“Declined” said the bored youth at the checkout. I fumbled in my bag, blushing.
“Sorry, I’ll try another card” and, with fingers crossed, stuck another one in the machine.
“Declined”, said the boy. A collective sigh emanated from the queue that was now fidgeting beside me.
“Hang on I’ve one more” and sweating a little by this point, I shoved in my pink John Lewis one, one that I never meant to use and only applied for so that I would get a free Waitrose food magazine.
“Pin number?”, said the boy now yawning. Oh shizer. I racked my brains but no magic number came to mind. I tried different variations on a theme until after the third time the machine once again spat it out.
“Too late. You’ve had your three goes.” I was mortified. Of course, it being a small town many people know me and looked askance at how I, a commander’s wife could be so broke. Puce, I abandoned my shopping, dragging a screaming Red-Head as I’d had to replace her tube of Smarties on the shelf.
I went home and considered what, from the farinaceous side of my pantry, I could rustle up for dinner for the kids. Just as I was embarking on a macaroni cheese, Mags breezed in, Monsoon carrier bags dangling from her wrist.
“Come and see my fashion show”, she urged. This was all I needed, a twig thin, financially solvent, career pursuing chum showing me her booty. I wiped my hands on my apron and duly sat on the sofa as she twirled around my sitting room, displaying outfit after outfit.
“Lovely”, I said.
“Oh don’t be too enthusiastic”, replied Mags, a little crestfallen.
“Sorry”, I replied, “You really do look fantastic in them, just that I’ve had a bit of an afternoon of it”. I told her my woes and Somerfield shame. She hugged me.
“Poor you. It’s the perception people have of you Alice. You live in a nice house that..”
“Cheltenham and Gloucester own and what they don’t take, our overdraught cleans up. I don’t normally stress about it too much but Hubby’s dumps have never been so down”.
“Oh you know men. Make more of a fuss of him when he comes home. Stroke is ego, tell him how wonderful he is, how you’d never manage without him..”
“Well I wouldn’t”.
“Exactly”.
So Hubby came home last weekend to a chirpy wife, his favourite flapjacks, a clean and tidy house, the washing put away and communicative, cooperative kids. All was going swimmingly until he got into my car.
“Dear God Alice, look at the state of this thing”, he said removing seriously decayed apple cores from under the Red-Head’s car seat.
“Oh don’t look under there”, I said too briskly but I spoke too soon because Hubby let out a mighty roar as he found an empty juice carton and sticky, furry mildew adhering itself to it.
“I was getting round to cleaning that up”, I added bashfully, “But it’s been so wet, we make a dash for it when we get out of the car, then I get wrapped up in other domestic pleasures and forget.” The Lords name was used in vain as he went into the house for a carrier bag, some kitchen paper and the Cif.
“Why the hell is there a collection of tubes and cut up cereal boxes in the boot?”, before I had a chance to reply that it was his daughter’s ‘art’ he bellowed,
“And what is this?”, lifting up a mouldy pitta bread, oozing slimy cucumber and lettuce.
“Infant school food technology. She started to eat it before we got home”.
The rest of the weekend wasn’t any more successful and even my amorous attempts were met with a cold shoulder – my lacy knickers were overlooked. His mood was not helped by the fact that his car needed an MOT, yet more expense coupled with having to catch the train back to Portsmouth. I drove him to the station.“Just drop me off, I’m running late”. I insisted on a platform snog but could not keep up with him. We had to run down the steps, along the long corridor then finally up another flight of steps. I was trailing behind, huffing and puffing. By the time I got to the top step he was on the moving train gesticulating frantically. I waved back enthusiastically and blew kisses. He shook his head and pointed. I looked down – my left breast, that had been barely supported all day in a pink, lacy, wholly ineffective bra had finally, due to my jog, broken free of its fetters and now dangled over the top of my camisole. I looked up; Hubby’s head was in his hands as the train finally disappeared.