My sincerest apologies if I offended any of Victoria’s friends in my first blog, and I would very much like to redress the balance with a fairer description of her character.
Where to begin? Well, I could start with her cuddle-ee-ness (she is a great cuddler) and her extraordinary ability never to raise her voice, no matter how exasperating the behaviour of her mate (ie me). She is calmness personified and her composure under duress is a model that should be employed in all anger-management textbooks and diametrically opposed to mine in all circumstances. Whereas I stamp my foot and utter less salubrious forms of the Anglo-Saxon dialect, she will ignore such childish tantrums, preferring a more serene journey over the churning oceans of life. An example will illustrate, at once, the difference between us.
“Vicky!” I shout from my computer, “there’s a %&/$/&% fly in the house! How did it get in? You must have left a door or window open!” Foot stamp. “It’s all your fault!” Etc. etc.
Now, any normal lady would have walked up to me and given me a good slapping, followed by a total ban, for a month, of all conjugal rights, followed by another month of under-cooked stale cabbage dinners. I would expect, and frankly approve, such punitive action. But not Vicky. She quietly picks up the fly-swat and, with unerring accuracy, lays waste the offending insect. She then silently returns to her labours: washing the dishes, the laundry, cleaning the house (daily, top to bottom), cooking the meals, decorating on the scaffolding, tending the chickens, writing three books, plus any other tasks I might have allocated her and which I tick off a de jour list, following my de jour inspection with new white gloves.
I decided, one day, to teach her to be more aggressive. “I’m going to teach you how to defend yourself,” I said, “should the occasion arise.”
“What occasion?” she reasonably enquires.
“You know. Um… Imagine I’m our English bank manager.”
It should be noted that our English bank manager is not her favourite person. Perhaps I should have chosen an alternative target because, without the least instruction, up swept her foot to my precious nethers, down I fell, up came a right hook followed by a left, and I awoke the next morning, 12 hours later, still prone on the living room floor.
“What is your command, oh glorious master?” the Genie asks in a stentorian voice. I ask him to keep it down a bit because I have a headache. He nods and whispers the question again.
“What is your command, oh glorious master?”
“I want a new wife. One with big eyes, a long neck and even longer legs. Oh. And I don’t want to hear a word from this one either.”
“Your wish is my command!” the Genie hisses in my ear.