David Moseley

The strange habits of wives, Part III

2014-02-25 13:19

David Moseley

As I walked past the spare bedroom in our house this morning I noticed my wife on the floor, half-dressed and rummaging through the sock basket. Which was a strange place to be looking for her socks, because they were lying next to the dog, in the dog’s bed.

Also, we don’t actually have a sock basket. We’re not that white. It’s a picnic basket that has somehow ended up stuffed with socks.

Robyn is always looking for something – underwear, condiments, medicine and the like. She hunts with great enthusiasm. But her packing away leaves much to be desired.

“Where are my socks,” Robyn muttered to no one in particular while neatly folded pairs of socks flew from the basket and landed all about the room.

Normally I would have said, “where you left them” or “I hope you’re planning on putting those socks back where you found them.” Or, “Well Robyn, there are some socks on the floor of our bedroom, some in the dog’s bed, some in the passage and some hanging up on the washing line.” But Robyn’s been ill the last few days so I thought better of it and walked off to make her some coffee instead.

The dog followed, tired of being whacked on the head by flying rolls of socks.

I assumed that the mess she was making, unlike the smaller messes she leaves around the house, would warrant a quick tidy up before leaving for work. I was wrong. As usual.

Living with my wife is like living with a particularly productive, yet absent-minded squirrel. All around the house there are little piles of “Robyn”. Gathered, no doubt, for a winter hibernation and quickly forgotten about.

The dog shares her dog bed with Robyn’s wardrobe. The dog quite likes it, except for the socks. On her bedside table Robyn keeps a collection of glasses, half-filled with water from the night before.

On the dining room table sits her study material, painstakingly assembled in a chaotic pile of library books and scribbled notes. Clothes, the dog’s toys, empty DVD cases… they’re all conveniently scattered around the house in unkempt clusters.

But those are nothing compared to the destruction of when she’s on the hunt for something – like her socks, or running gear or anything that’s been packed away neatly.

Like an Indiana Jones villain intent on discovering an ancient artifact before our hero, Robyn will pillage, plough and plunder her way forward. No folded laundry is safe.

From the lounge I’ll hear a crash. And a thud. A box being ripped open, its contents poured onto the floor. A clatter, a shuffle, a harrumph and other noises of growing frustration until eventually a muffled, “where is the thing-thing something-something.”

I don’t know, Robyn. Where did you leave it?

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