A quiet night in?
Why does the reality of a cherished evening alone never live up to the hype, asks our columnist
Rosie Green considers the reality of a quiet night in without the other half
NEEDY? PAH. I AM A WOMAN WHO IS VERY SECURE
IN HER RELATIONSHIP. A woman who never (hardly ever) goes through her husband’s emails, and who absolutely wouldn’t steam open a letter he received in girlie handwriting (because that would be wrong and would most probably be from his sister. Ahem).
To wit, I firmly advocate nights out without each other. “Go for it,” I say. “Let the wheels come off.” On my nights, the keys are inevitably left dangling in the front door and I end up sleeping, in my coat, with one foot on the floor to instantly stop dreaded room spin. On these occasions, AM is overjoyed and watches back-to-back BT Sport while systematically working his way through the kids’ entire weekly provision of snacks. He then goes to bed and falls sound asleep with nary a thought as to my whereabouts. (NB I know this because when I call him en route home from the station to put off any would-be attackers, he does not pick up and thus I have to have an animated conversation with myself.)
Tonight, AM is going out. I am thrilled. How good for him to bond with the boys, to talk sport, perhaps have a manly wrestle.
8pm. I’m excited about the prospect of an indulgent, recharging evening in. There will be no compromising on TV (our Venn diagram of Tv-watching only has David Attenborough and Cool Runnings in the overlapping section). I may use a sheet mask and nuke my legs with a hair-removal device.
8.15pm. This is good. Gogglebox, bit of Keeping Up With The Kardashians, plus a fashion documentary. Bliss.
9.30pm. Hope he is having a nice time. Google last train that arrives at decent hour.
10pm. Time for early night as article I am reading suggests sleep will keep me beautiful/sane/slim/successful.
Might text to remind him we agreed 12am curfew return.
So enjoying my night in. 10.15pm. No response from text. Probably no signal in bar. 10.20pm. Or possibly he’s been involved in altercation and has lost use of fingers so can no longer text. 10.25pm. I wonder if Anna, female work colleague, is on the night out? I enjoy double-cleansing and climb into bed and assume starfish position. Phone bleeps.
It is a friend asking if still up for next week. Hmmph. 10.45pm. Read book. Insert earplugs in anticipation. Relax. RELAX. Close my eyes. Instant thought tornado:
I bet he’s spending a lot of money. And won’t make the 10.45pm train. I have a lot to do tomorrow and a work presentation and now I won’t be on form. Does he not realise how important my work is? I bet he gets so trashed he’ll get ill and then the whole weekend is a write-off.
11.45pm. Call. No answer. Dead – possibly. Affair – possibly. Drunk. Definitely.
Whatever. I spritz some pillow spray.
I realise I am self-sabotaging and acting like a lunatic. Try to relax. Get anxious about not being more relaxed. I contemplate locking him out, then self medicate with Night Nurse. Zzzzzzz.
2.31am. Wake up startled. He is still not home. Consider divorce proceedings.
2:45am. What is that downstairs? Strange noise as if grizzly bear has invaded house and is ransacking the fridge. Followed by weird scraping noise. Identify it as clink of spoon against bowl. AM is home. 3am. AM bounds up the stairs, sprightly as a mountain goat. He bursts through the bedroom door (loud bang). He looks more than a little dishevelled – his hair is askew and one eye is wonky through tiredness/inebriation. He jumps into bed. There’s a waft of Eau de London Pride.
“Green,” he says in a lascivious tone, attempting a wink.
“Were you waiting up for me?”
“Might text to REMIND him we agreed 12am curfew return. So enjoying my NIGHT in”