If I died you’d be up in the tennis club in two months chasing the one with the long legs

WE’D ALL LIKE to think that if we suddenly shuffled off this mortal coil, we’d leave behind a trail of devastated loved ones. Everyone wants to make their mark on the world, no matter how small that mark is. It’s kind of comforting to think that if you weren’t around anymore, somebody, somewhere would always be grieving for you, keeping a tiny little space in their heart with your name engraved on it. You’d like to think that wouldn’t you? It was one of those late-night, after-a-bottle-of-wine conversations that I shouldn’t have started. You know the kind: ‘How many women were you with before me?’ (seriously, like any man is going to answer that honestly) or ‘Do you think I need to lose weight?’ (see previous comment) or ‘If I died, how long would it take you to get over me and meet someone else?’

I know, I know. By asking that question, I was only asking for trouble but I obviously have masochistic tendencies because I did. And one of my husband’s favourite pastimes is winding me up so I knew even before he said anything, this wasn’t going to end well.

‘Well obviously I couldn’t put an exact time frame on it but I’d be very upset,’ he says.

‘How upset? Would you be so upset that you wouldn’t be able to eat or drink, or get out of bed?’ I enquire. He looks taken aback. ‘Ah no, I wouldn’t be that bad.’

He realises his mistake and tries to backtrack. ‘Like of course I’d be devastated. Course I would.’ He pats my hand. I take a large gulp of wine. ‘But sure, you know at the end of the day, life goes on.’

I take another gulp of wine and say, ‘well maybe for you it does but I’ll be dead’.

He starts to laugh but recovers quickly. ‘Hahahaha true. But no of course, my love, I’d be devastated.’ I hate when he calls me his ‘ love’ because I know for a fact then that he’s taking the Mick.

‘I’d give you two months max and you’d be up in the tennis club swinging your racket and chasing a replacement,’ I say huffily. ‘Ah now, that’s not fair. I wouldn’t do that. Not after two months.’ I ignore him. ‘I even know exactly who you’d go for.’ ‘Who?’ he says intrigued. ‘ That one with the swishy pony tail and the long legs,’ I reply, looking down self pityingly at my hobbit-like pins. ‘Which one with the swishy pony tail?’ he asks. ‘You know the one, with the long brown swishy hair – what’s her name? Eh, Lyn, I think...’

He pauses for a second and then replies: ‘Ah no, you mean Lydia. Her name’s Lydia.’

Didn’t I say this wouldn’t end well?