Questionnaires are the last place you should start. Especially if you’re trying to find out something extraordinary about yourself. In fact, no matter how hard they sell themselves, multiple choice questions can’t give you insights into your own life. Can they?
If it’s an online quiz, then I’m delighted to take it. Especially if it will help me find out which Friends character I’d be (Gunther), or if I’m good at grammar (mostly). Anything that might tell me something about myself that goes beyond the superficial? Sorry, no, my scepticism gauge just shot up to 100.
It was because of work that I first encountered Belbin and the realisation that, no, I wasn’t a completer finisher.
Doctor and monster
If you’ve not come across it before, Belbin is a personality test. It’s full title is The Belbin Self-Perception Inventory. Just as many people mistake Frankenstein to be the monster, it was Meredith Belbin who invented the test. Even though it’s the test not Meredith who wears the moniker.
Under normal circumstance I would have looked at its grand title then done some eye-rolling and hurried past. Much in the same way as you do when you see the guy wearing the Free Hugs T-shirt. After all, questionnaires are about finding out whether a website can guess my star sign from 10 simple questions. (It can’t.)
The position I was in though meant I couldn’t just ignore the test. I had just started a new job and they’d paid a lot of money for the training and tests. Like all good psychological insights, it was mandatory.
There’s no need to worry about your results
Calm should be the order of the day. Whatever you do, don’t try and over analyse these results. The trainer spent a lot of time going through this. Don’t panic. After all, Belbin is designed to tell you where you fit in a team. There’s no good or bad; right or wrong.
Then again, completer finisher was my lowest score. In fact, when I got my results, I had to check if the score had even bothered to turn up on the sheet.
It was official: I’m not good at finishing things.
There is something upsetting about finding that out. worse still, this was an answer that had come from myself. It’s not like when your friend says ‘the worst thing about you’ and you can just turn off.
This message was from deep within me. Not from the bit that knows how to work the coffee machine and loves Rachel. Or that knows ‘They’re waiting for their table over there‘ is correct.
No, this news had shot from my own unconscious. This wasn’t a proclamation from the loud, flashy king. It was a whisper from the hidden adviser who sits behind the throne and mutters in the king’s ear.
What I couldn’t work out was why this little bit of knowledge stung.
Stop me and ask
After all, I finish lots of things. If anyone wanted to stop me in the street and ask me to list something I’ve finished then I could get straight on that. Not top ten, admittedly. Five from the top? OK, it could take a little bit of thinking, but main three. Not. A. Problem.
Finishing matters. It’s achievement. It’s not glory. That’s winning. Finishing is wiping the sweat from your forehead and standing back to admire what you’ve created. Not finishing is losing.
At the risk of sounding like one of those pretend school teachers that the Daily Mail imagine cancel sports day, even coming last isn’t losing. You got there; you did it. Look behind you: those guy scratching their balls on the sofa. they’re the real losers.
Damn. While I was looking the other way, I accidentally became a motivational poster. what next: there’s no ‘I’ in team?
I am a finisher. I am, dammit. My top three things I’ve finished are:
- Moby Dick, by Herman Melville
- Underworld, by Don Delillo
- The Betrothed, by Alessandro Manzoni
OK, it’s good and bad that my top three are all vast novels. It means I read a lot, which is generally good, but is that really the height of my achievement?
Surely, it’s a curtailed life if it’s achievements lie in consuming things other people have created? Also, it denies the longer list of books I have abandoned before the final page.
Or worse, let’s look through my computer’s hard drive. It’s an unholy rabble of deserted and forgotten writing projects.
Don’t go through my hard drive
I’m begging. Don’t try to read any of the two-page plays: the curtain falls with the pistol still not fired. Here, there’s a folder full of execrable verse. A whole folder full of poems, each of them half built. You can see the rafters and there’s no glass in any of the windows. All those novels that taper down to sketches and bullet points. One of them gets as far as ‘Once upon a time’ before deciding better and leaving the reader to fill in the rest for themselves.
Fine, I think. Thanks Belbin, you’re right. Look at that mountain of things that I’ve left undone. Every single thing just left to wind down, like a faulty clock.
Yes, okay. I get the point. (Part of me was desperate to just leave this denunciation here. Sort of on that bum note, with everything loose threads and out of shape. Like a badly made sweater.)
So, when I read my questionnaire results, I knew what that burn was. It was my own sense of failure, presented in full colour, on graph paper. Somehow, I’d set myself a task that I was failing at. I couldn’t finish anything other than three books with large page counts.
But looking at the cases where everything fell off isn’t going to change that. That’s just looking at a whole heap of metaphorical ball scratching. You can’t learn anything from that.
Instead, look at the things you have achieved. There are a few finishing lines that I have managed to cross.
And if you’ve crossed them once, you can cross them again without tapering off. Even if it makes you sound like a motivational poster, every now and again.
Written in response to the daily prompt ‘Taper’.
Women’s hair products used to be obsessed with volume. Each one boasting about its ever increasing achievements in the field of bulk. No self respecting shampoo would dream of taking a shower with a young lady, unless it could make her hair the size of a barrage balloon. Two barrage balloons; three! Just one wash will make your hair swell to a coiffured grandeur fit for a courtier of Louis XIV.
Thankfully that drive for volume has now shrivelled like a punctured souffle. Instead, modern hair products obsess about the nourishment they offer. As the way people eat has changed, so has the respect that advertisers insist we pay to our hair’s dietary needs.
If you were audacious enough, you could have placed something organic in front of 90s hair. I suspect you would have met with a blank look and the flick of a voluminous lock. No, what 90s hair wanted was quantity. For a small additional sum, you could go large. 90s hair wanted the fat.
Herbal Essence is a brand of shampoo named to associate it with organic, vegetable goodness. In the 90s its main concern was that ‘organics’ sounded almost identical to the word ‘orgasmic’. Adverts for this product had more moaning in them than an acrimonious episode of Points of View.
Natural was not important. Excess was. And shampoo wanted you to know it. It sprayed volume, moaning, hot oil at people, like Caligula for follicles.
Now, shampoo is different. It still makes blonds blonder, brunettes shinier. And now, for a small additional charge, it ‘feeds’ your hair. It is nutritious, natural, nourishing.
Shampoo’s urge to place itself as one of the major food groups is because people now care more about where their food comes from. There are thousands of websites that chatter endlessly about the benefits of eating clean. Lifestyle and food are now linked more closely than ever. A stray opinion on dairy can destroy a lifelong friendship. Therefore, shampoo steps up and steals these same ideas for itself.
OK, shampoo has always led on the idea of ‘clean’ for a long time. In fact any claims that shampoo is a cleaning agent are so asinine that this benefit hardly gets mentioned.
The new vocabulary of health and well-being has come from the new food industry. In reality, fast food chains pay lip service to artisan baked bread and reduced food miles.
Behind their farmers’ market facade hides the industrialisation of the food industry. In just the same way, shampoo is still a brew of detergents and perfumes. Yet, its colours are contours continue to become smoother and more soothing. Scientists in laboratories around the world are working double shifts to make sure your hair-cleaner look appealing and colourful enough to be served as a wheatgerm smoothie.
Before, shampoo wanted to be big and brash. Now it wants to be delicious. Shampoo wants to answer your primal urges, it wants you to feel sexy, powerful, hungry. Where next, though, spiritual? Wherever you go, don’t worry, shampoo will be there with you.
Written in response to the Daily Post’s volume prompt.
The house at that corner sags into its tangled garden of brambles. Ivy strangles one of the windows and gropes towards the chimney pot. From where they stand, Suzanna can see a triangle of yellow curtain falling across one of the windows. Behind that only black shadow. That was a child’s room, Suzanna thinks and the thought causes cold to skitter across her skin. She shivers. Beyond that little sliver of yellow a void squirms. A huge, sucking mouth of wet blackness.
Suzanna’s grandmother suddenly curls her thin fingers around the little girl’s upper arm and turns her to face the old, abandoned house. ‘See the house there?’ She says. ‘See it; it is haunted; possessed’. Suzanna feels the same fingers of dread scrambling over her skin.
The whole village knows that the house is cursed. Indeed, many years ago, when grandmother was a young woman, she and some friends crept into the house jut before dusk and scattered flour over the floor in the top bedroom. ‘That bedroom there,’ says grandmother, pointing to the window where the tatter of yellow peeps out from behind rotten frames.
‘When we went back the next day, the flour was full of footprints. Cloven hooves, like a goats, but only one set’. Whatever had walked there that night had done so on two feet. ‘See’, says Suzanna’s grandmother, ‘that’s proof that the Devil strolls through that house at night.’
Suzanna is older now; a tall, blonde, elegant woman, who I have met at least twice at dinner parties. She lives in Britain and the possessed house and her grandmother’s small Polish village are anecdotes – dark-edged fairy tales to recount across the white clothes of Middle England’s dinner tables. Britain has a large Polish population, and the stereotype is a nation of dispossessed plumbers and builders. But you do not have to dig beyond this easy banality to find how readily we English will accept Poland as a land of dank pine forests, where silent peasants stand watching suspiciously from their austere doorways. We dinner guests all sit and listen, transfixed.
It is a perfect story. Suzanna tells it well. She tells it in a way that is half belief it, half gentle mockery. It is that dose of the incredulity that makes it all the more believable. She is reaching back to be the little granddaughter again, suspicious that her grandmother is pulling her leg. Yet that crust of disbelief is a thin veneer over her darker childish faith that eldritch forces stalk this world.
While I believe the story of the story is true, I do not believe that the old house was imbued with the presence of evil; that the devil was callow enough to trot his foot prints through the flour. Instead, this sounds like a mischievous tale told by a grandparent to scare and beguile a child. That malicious act of love: abusing your position of trust to tell a tale that will live with that person through their life – so much so, they are telling it to a relative stranger twenty years later, on the other side of Europe. Although I doubt it is a conscious thing, it is an amazing thing to transmit that feeling of wonder and the excitement of real dread to someone for whom those emotions are real and vivid and alive. Probably in the way that Grandmother’s own grandmother gripped her arm and pointed to a ramshackle old place, falling in to ruin, and told the story of the foot prints in the flour.
Then again, this is me placing my own reasoning on the tale. I would tell it because it was scary, not because I believe it. I think it’s fun to be scared. Nothing more. Perhaps Suzanna’s grandmother told the story because she believed it was true. It is not so extraordinary that people believe in the supernatural is empirical and real – a measurable and discoverable force. I work with a young man who grew up in a deeply religious household. He believes in spirits, in the real worldly existence of demons. So when Suzanna’s grandmother grips her thin arm, her fingers squeezing hard through the material of the little girl’s coat, and whispers a story of the little group hurrying from the house, their hands white with precious flour, it is not a story to amaze and startle. Perhaps the whispered words are a warning: stay away from the devil’s house. For what is more precious and irreplaceable in this world than your granddaughter’s soul?
Again, I do not believe that it was the devil’s feet, part of me does not even believe in the scattered flour. I think that we grant agency to things, motive and intent beyond their solid objectivity. An argument erupts, a disease strikes, people die. And why? The fact that there is no reason, no agency behind people’s lives can be more terrifying than a foolish devil, slinking back to hell to scrape flour off his hooves.
What sort of story is it to say that was the house where Patryck and Marta lived. He became sick and died. Marta moved away. See, there is his grave, there in the church yard. Now no one wanted to live in the house where Patryck died. So the house sits empty. Wood warps, the house begin to slouch on its foundations; it looks cold, untended. Now it is an unlucky house. Tiles slip from the roof, birds live in the rafters, people can sometimes hear their noisy avian lives: the sudden scratching and shuffling; the house creaks as it settles into its dereliction.
One day a board breaks with a loud crash. All of the people in the village freeze, caught by the sudden violence of a sound from such an empty place. It is no longer Patryck and Marta’s house, it is no longer unlucky. Instead it is cursed. Grandmothers clutch their granddaughter’s arms as they walk past. Beware. Three brave children steal a small sack of flour and the next day find the empty house is alive with creatures (who now sit in their nests licking flour off their feet). Our minds create their own uneasiness about a place where the humanity has left, but the structures remain. As if the house itself should disappear along with its residents. But their own beliefs mean that they don’t see the birds, only the dark and sinister edge of emptiness: feel the shudder that says it is the devil stamping infernal patterns across the floor at night.
Curiosity is why you and I own curtains but are irritated that other people own them too. The fact that it is such a driving force behind how we interact means that we’ve really been tarring cats with a brush that, for a long time, we’ve been wielding from deep within the blackest depths of our own personal tar bucket.
Our inquisitiveness is a raw, roaring force that surges within us and means that it is necessary to create its antithesis. This, we named privacy. While each of us is happy to excuse our own nosiness as, at its best, concern or, at its worst, moral outrage, we are equally ardent at erecting as many walls and trapdoors round our own private lives as possible, so that other people’s curiosity, or ‘meddling’, can’t get in. Looked at from this point of view, the whole of human society is an ongoing scuffle as each of us pushes fleets of busy noses out of our affairs, while at the same time desperately jostling to find the tiniest of cracks in someone else’s defences, where we can have a good poke of the snout at what’s going on. This unruly and exhaustive nasal jousting also means that, despite the aphorisms, curiosity is very seldom idle.
Privacy acts as a buttress against all this squirming intrusiveness. Of the two forces, curiosity would appear to be the stronger. For one thing, it has existed in a natural form for far longer than the human species has been laying one bipedal foot in front of the other, in order to have a sneaky peak at what animals the tribe round the corner are painting on their cave walls. Its existence probably extends beyond the point, hundreds of thousands years ago, when primitive Mud Skippers wondered just how different the dry bit was from the wet bit and thus began the terrestrial colonisation of Earth. Whenever curiosity started to sniff around, humans certainly welcomed it into our repertoire of motives with alacrity. Once we had it, we wasted very little time in adapting it to better suit our own purposes. It is perhaps because we are so good at it – or are so trapped in its thrall – that we had to create privacy, to at least try to stay some of curiosity’s new, improved avarice.
Certainly, animals seem to have a hold on their sense of curiosity. Their need to have a quick look under that rock there is balanced with a slice or two of caution, in case ‘under that rock’ turns out to be a bit bitey or stingy. On the other hand they seem oblivious to privacy. For a good example of this, think of your dog’s complete ease at defecating in full view of a bus queue of school children. Compare this to your own bashful adventures to a train bathroom; an experience as fraught with anxiety as if one was attempting to play a trombone without waking a room full of sleeping puff adders. It is your sophisticated idea of yourself as a separate and divisible entity, apart from the whole, that fills the trip to a train bathroom with a dreadful obsession with the reliability of the electronic lock and its disposition towards yawning open to reveal your ablutions to a carriage full of commuters.
Doesn’t this all beg a question, though? Why do we need to defend ourselves against curiosity? After all, curiosity is what got us to the moon, meant Britain adopted curry as its national dish, and discovered DNA and exactly what the twisty little bugger was up to. ‘I wonder what it’s like up there?’ curiosity says. ‘What is cardamon, anyhow?’ ‘Why does my youngest look exactly like my friend Graham?’ But you see that’s curiosity’s public face. It’s the collection of good causes curiosity desperately quotes at you, when you catch it browsing through the folder of Downton Abbey erotica that you’ve composed under the pen name EarlCrawleyLoveSponge342.
You see, it is only where we have secrets that suddenly we need privacy to shield them from all that boundless curiosity that’s bouncing round the world, putting its muzzle into every crotch it can find and having a sniff.
After all, what are secrets other than the expressions of your heart’s desires; your true self, naked and raw, blinking in the cruel light? Who wouldn’t want to protect that small, shivering child from the razor-like glare of the world? Even those who, to quote Bob Dylan, have got ‘no secrets to conceal’ cannot free themselves from being pursued by curiosity’s snuffling nose. Reality TV stars, whose stock in trade is that they are open books, and fill the world with the pitiless unceasing yammering of their every thought, are not immune.
One would think that curiosity would lose interest in them fairly quickly, as it already knows that Kayleigh and Jo-Jo have been seeing each other behind Zee-man’s back (as would Zee-man, if he watched the show). But the reverse is true. After all, once these individuals start down the existential path of being nothing more than a series of noisy public exposures, everyone suddenly longs to know more. Even after numerous incidents of scrofulous public nudity and yelling, the priapic snouts of Paparazzi cameras still stalk them from nightclub to Gala dinner to private beach resort. Journalists paw through their rubbish, like tramps with expense accounts. No matter what they reveal, our curiosity is there, begging for more. It’s as if, with every revelation, we think ‘if they are willing to tell us this, what aren’t they saying? ‘ One can only assume that, as a society, we have tacitly agreed that we need these fatuous absurdities to distract curiosity, while everyone else goes about our business in peace. That they serve a similar function to throwing fish heads into the sea to distract sharks.
If that’s how curiosity treats people who really don’t have anything worth hiding, think what it would do with the rest of us! No wonder each of us shoves that secret life away from the world and no matter how pure or noble, we treat the expressions of our own hearts with the same distaste as if they were a cheese sandwich that has been left to fester under a teenager’s bed.
That said, the miserable truth of the matter is that, once revealed, your dark secrets will prove to be as boring and anodyne as your public life. Curiosity isn’t bothered that you bury these pennies as if they were gold, it only cares that you are hoarding them. The Wizard of Oz is an old man behind a curtain. It is the curtain that makes him powerful, once that has been pulled back, he is as tediously human as Dorothy. But while the curtain of privacy hangs over the secret, terrible thing that you do in private – something anomic and perverse, like eating cheese with chocolate, scratching your bum and then sniffing your fingers, or worse, composing poetry – you will hear the terrible tick, tick, tick of curiosity’s claws passing the other side of that draped velvet curtain.
And how horrifying will it be when the fabric is ripped back, the curtain hooks rattling against the rail? Ah, well that would be telling.
(This was written in response to The Daily Post subject Privacy: https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/privacy/)
Arguments with my wife usually occur when we are in cars and especially when I am driving. She doesn’t think I am a good driver, so a lot of our angry exchanges are based on this premise: our vehicular deaths brought about by my poor road skills.
Whether this is true or not, I’m not sure. I make mistakes, but to extrapolate this upwards to maniac stunt driver, or downwards toward Mr Magoo style blind incompetence, seem unfair. These are the two sides of the argument:
- Oh my god. Watch out!
- I can see, calm down
A lot of her nervousness will come from the fact that she has changed position from driver to passenger. The passive partner in any journey, your control of the situation is non-existent. You are trusting your life to the skill, concentration and hand/eye coordination of another person. You are wholly controlled by the decisions that this other person makes.
I don’t know what this says about our relationship, that my wife is uneasy trusting my with her life. Whether this is a deader uneasy at my ability to navigate us through life, it only manifests itself during car journeys.
It may be my hope that this mistrust isn’t a symptom of something deeper, that I tend to put her nervousness and nonplussed reactions to my driving style down to a change in her relative position in the car. The passenger seat being closer to the side of the road means that everything from pavements to trees and cyclists looms much more in that side of the windscreen. The green blur of hedgerows rushes past mere metres from your face. For someone who’s used to navigating a journey looking at the centre of the road and the on-coming traffic this new position is disconcerting. You are too close to the side of the road!
In fact, one of her major complaints is ‘You’re too close to the side of the road!”. This injunction to panic is normally delivered when we’re travelling down country lanes. Roadways that, by their very narrow, windy nature mean the side of the road is encroaching, no matter what. To steer away from the road edge on her side of the car would be to introduce the front end of the car to the other edge of the road on my side.
My main fear in country roads is that I will meet oncoming traffic and have to reverse. Because reversing is not a strong point in my driving skills. When I have to, for instance around the occasional corner, maybe even a parallel park, but a 60 second journey backwards as I try to find a passing point – terrifying.
The second contention between my wife and I when I am driving is the distinct difference in our driving styles. That I am happy to drive down hill in a high gear, unless advised by roadside signage that this is a bad idea, fills her with terror. Steep hills are meant to be driven down in third gear or lower. While I concede that this is a much safer option, it’s much less fun. If she knew that occasionally I like to pop the car out of gear and let gravity pull the car down the decline, I imagine that divorce papers would be drawn up. As an aside to other drivers, yes I do realise that this is much more dangerous than other forms of propelling your vehicle downhill, it’s an infrequent treat, like doughnuts: it’s okay once in awhile, but every day and it’s becoming a problem.
The difference in our styles is probably best illustrated with our attitude to parking. My mantra is simple: between the lines is fine. If the car’s a little wonky, so what? As long as I’m not encroaching on other drivers’ space or creating problems for them either accessing or manoeuvring their cars, who cares?
The answer: my wife. She is happy to take the extra…however long it takes…to get the car bang in the middle of the space, equidistant from the white lines on either side. When I am driving, my lackadaisical approach to precision parking causes short bouts of intense shouting and the slamming of car doors when we exit the vehicle. My slapdash attitude to fitting the car perfectly in its allotted spot is partly to do with my reluctance to reverse unless entirely necessary and partly because I just don’t care enough about parking cars to give it the mathematically precise operation that she thinks it deserves.
Sexism dictates that men are good at parking and women bad. You might notice here that the roles are reversed. So does this make me the feminine element of the relationship and my wife the masculine? No. I would say that her need for precision versus my slacker, this-will-do approach reflect appropriate gender responses that people expect in other stereotypical husband/wife, man/woman exchanges.
For instance, the washing up. On the occasions when washing up liquid and water need to be poured and dishes cleaned (we have dishwasher, so this is a rarity), my wife will wash up, rinse the cleaned plates, stack them, let them drain, dry them and return them to their appropriate cupboard. She will them clear the plug hole of of food debris, wipe the sink and side, before returning everything to its allotted place.
I will do…most of that, but definitely miss at least one glass from the washing/rinsing phase. I will also not dry and replace any of the cleaned and dried crockery – I washed up, what more do you want? Meanwhile my food debris removal will be cursory, at best. And even if I did perform an industrial scrub down after washing up, there’s still the bloody glass. How did I miss that, how?
Come to think about it, there’s two things that my wife and I argue about.
Written in response to Daily Prompts: https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/argument/
I suspect that the bit of my job that I’m supposed to be good at is actually the bit of the job I’m worst at. so where do my skills lay?
supposedly I was good at poetry. but reading back, 99% of what I wrote was dross. what about the comedy? too chicken do see that through. the marketing stuff I’m proud of: binned by housewife and businessman alike. sometimes I feel trapped. it’s as if reality is wrapped too tightly round me. where I want to be, the things I want to try: remote. they’re distant mountains I climb in my mind. I could do that I think but it’s only based on other people’s stories. it’s easy to climb a picture of everest. impossible to conquer the real thing if the closest you’re going to get to Kathmandu is as a pub quiz answer. what do I want? I want to work for a nice b to c company. somewhere that has a product that gives tangible results tugs real emotions. is that something I could do? I’m good at ideas. good at whimsy. good at talking. weaker on…well to be honest, probably the thing I cherish most: writing. and possibly persuading. sure there are things my mind will baulk at. places my imagination won’t go. and that’s a problem. how can I sell a benefit of something I don’t believe in. is it that I’m impressed by gloss? the car doesn’t have to be fast as long as it’s shiny? so once you’re actually under the bonnet of the thing, and there’s no shine is that what makes it look naff? or am I only interested in the gloss: the sort of narcissist who doesn’t care to think about things too deeply? Satisfied with the easy answer and ince it’s been said there’s no need to say it again. by which I mean, Richard fenyman tells the story of the plating company: they gold plated everything even if the gold wouldn’t bond. I think that’s a confidence trick. a lie. so when I see the faults in the product, how the guy in despatch scratches his arse inside his pants before picking up the goods. when I learn about that bit that wobbles which everyone’s been getting round to fix do I get the feeling that actually what we’re trying to punt is a load of shit? are there any products or services out there that don’t have that wobble or the dirty hands over them at one point? no. probably not. so by that logic I’m never going to find the company that’s the perfect fit. if the glass is always half full, no matter how ornate the glass is, I’m never going to be satisfied with the measure of what I drink.
Hilariously for someone who works in publishing, I’m not a details man. Or that I mistake complexity and long-winded Ness for detail. Given the job of describing a tree I’d instead describe the woods. Easier to skim over details than have to wrack my brains for the perfect words to describe the lizard-skin bark, the waxy green leaves that shine like polish. See the hectic thatch of a bird’s nest snuck into the crook of two branches. It creates a strange stirring of sexy, looking as it does like a public bush. And the way the branches split, each one a cleft. Trees make me think of sex!
My wife is so self-possessed and independent that often it feels like I’m an optional extra. It’s very clear to me that she could get by perfectly fine without. This morning, it was frosty outside and the car windscreens all had a glaze of white frost. Today is my day for staying home from my shitty job because my boss can’t afford to pay me. So there’s no need for me to step out into freezing black of a January morning at all.
Except there’s the frost and I want to help my wife. “There’s no need for you to come down”, she says.
“I know, but I’ll scrape the ice off the windscreens for you.”
The plan that I’d sketched out in my head involved me scraping the ice off the car, while she sat in the car, heaters going. The point was that she didn’t have to go through the strenuous and unpleasant chore of de-icing. But, as I said, my wife doesn’t really need me. So instead, while I vainly chipped away at the ice with the scraper, she fished around in the car’s boot and found the can of de-icing spray.
So now we’re both outside de-icing her car. In fact, she’s used the can to melt the frost from all four side windows and the rear window, while I’m still scuffing off the driver’s side of the front windscreen.
With a flourish of fine liquid chemical spray, she demolishes the icy build up on the passenger side of the front windscreen.
“All done” she says, before lifting the wipers to ensure that they’re not frozen too. I want to say “I’ve done that already”, but she’s ushering me back inside. As I turn to wave to her, I see that she’s rescraping the area that I’ve already de-iced. So, not only are my efforts slower than what she can achieve on her own, they are also substandard.
My realisation that I am to all intents and purposes superfluous is not a giant ice-tipped bolt that stabs me through the skull like frozen urine dropped from a passing airliner. There’s no sudden incredulous gust of understanding that roots my inconsequential self to the spot. This is more like a gentle reminder.
After all, she doesn’t even know that I’ve seen her working over my contribution to ice-free driving vision.
That I don’t bring anything at all useful to our relationship is something that I’ve long been conscious of. Other than companionship, flatulence and a warm place to put cold feet, I don’t really add anything at all. Let’s be frank about the attributes I do bring, these can also supplied by a dog. The only thing that I’ve got that a dog hasn’t is opposable thumbs, so I don’t get trapped behind a closed door quite so often. Although, to say that it never happened would be to stretch the point into fiction.
It’s amazing that this confident, strident and independent woman not only has me hanging around but that she does things with me. More amazing again, quite often she does things for me – things I’m capable of doing myself, but not to the same sort of standard that she expects. Sometime marriage feels like the most comprehensive case of Stockholm Syndrome ever diagnosed. As a husband, I sort of have a sneaky suspicion I know what the kidnappers felt when Patty Hearst was better at robbing banks than them.