Mrs C has yet to forgive me and, I dare say, never will
In many ways I consider myself a sane and normal individual. I’m good natured and generally friendly; I hold down a job and pay my bills on time; I am kind to elderly neighbours; and I give money to several charities - Shelter, British Heart Foundation, the National Association of Prevention of Diabetes in Gerbils.
But something happened the other week that made me wonder if I have a problem.
We have just had an extension at the back of our house.
It was Mrs C’s idea as she wanted somewhere to put the children’s toys.
I suggested this could be solved by perhaps not buying the children as many toys. I mean, I didn’t get toys as a child and it never did me any harm.
It’s ironic that despite all her toys, the only time Mary is truly happy is when she is outside in the back alley dropping stones into a grid.
Anyway, we’ve had an extension and as a result have had a new kitchen fitted.
The builder did everything. I had one job – to purchase a draining board, you know, the thing that you put your pots on after you’ve washed them.
Mrs C offered to do this but she had mentioned getting some poshsounding make and alarmed at the money this might cost, I said I’d take care of it.
What I didn’t bank on was the sheer bewildering array of draining boards on the market.
There are two-tier self-draining dish racks, stainless steel deep dish drainers and about 50 other types that I haven’t got the time to go into here.
Suffice to say there was a lot of choice and, if I do possess one quality in life, it is the inability to make a decision.
Over a two-week period, I spent at least half an hour online daily, googling draining boards and making a list of possible contenders.
All the while Mrs C reminded me it was imperative to get this draining board as soon as possible because the new kitchen worktops we’d had fitted were wooden and they would rot if they got wet.
I told her not to be so uptight and to put a towel down to put the wet dishes on until I got the real thing ordered.
This situation went on for two weeks and three days.
In this time I had looked at about 240 different draining racks but couldn’t make my mind up (I’m genuinely not making this up – this is how pathetic my life is).
On Tuesday I arrived home to find Mrs C in furious mood.
‘Look at THIS,’ she exploded as I walked through the door.
She led me to the sink area and lifted up the sodden towel I had been using to put the wet pots on.
Underneath was an alarmingly large black mouldy rotten mark across our brand new and quite
I picked up the cloth and rubbed at the stain. It didn’t come off. I put a bit more effort in. Nothing
expensive wooden kitchen top.
‘Don’t worry, it’ll rub off,’ I said, in a brisk and unconcerned manner which suggested she was being unnecessarily dramatic.
‘Go on then know-all,’ she said, flinging a cloth at me with surprising force, ‘because I’ve been trying for the last hour and it hasn’t budged.’
Tutting and rolling my eyes at her over-reaction, I picked up the cloth and rubbed at the stain.
It didn’t come off. I put a bit more effort in. Nothing.
What happened next was that I spent the following hour-and-a-half scrubbing frantically at the surface with absolutely zero success while
Mrs C stood close-by, glaring, arms folded, like a modern-day Ena Sharples.
Sweating and sounding like I was about to have a fatal asthma attack, I eventually gave in and admitted the stain was permanent.
She sent me out there and then to buy a draining board, so I drove to Dunelm and ended up – because I was desperate and it was pretty much the only thing there – spending £50 (massively over my proposed budget of £13.50) on a draining board, which we have now covered the huge rotten mouldy stain with.
Mrs C has yet to forgive me and, I dare say, never will.