Blokes with balls

A girlfriend of mine once rang me in fits, tears and snot evidently dribbling from her facial orrifices as she laughed. Once I was able to lasso in some logical syntax, this is what she told me.

I came home to a spotless kitchen and the whiff of some gorgeous smelling risotto. My husband ushered me to the couch and pressed play on the DVD. It was Love Actually, actually. He then served me a glass of red and joined me for his brandy and dry. We chatted, in a somewhat surreal space to my mind, about the weather, the overgrown lawn, educational theory. Then he ran back to the kitchen, clanked and clattered a little and produced said rustic Italian feast which we ate by movie light, side by side, on our worn out blue sofa. I watched him watch me eat my last morsels of rice. Watched him watch me put my fork down in the bowl. Watched him watch me place my bowl on the floorboards. Watched him watch me settle back in to continue with the movie.

And he suddenly paused it, jumped up and flicked on the light.
What?! I cried. His pace suggested he'd left a burning cake in the oven. Or had suddenly developed a loose bowel.

He returned to the couch. Sat down beside me. Smiled. Into my eyes smiled.
What? It was a bit much.
Then he looked down at my empty risotto bowl and nodded at it. 'Good?'
'Yum?' I answered, hoping this was the correct response.
'Cool,' he replied. Grinning. Frozen. Waiting for....

Suddenly realising the entire set up was a ploy which, no matter how seemingly romantic and altruistic in nature was actually an enactment of the universe's most fundemental, archetypal bluff, I began to laugh. Indeed, I descended into a torrent of hysterical fits, gushing forth, Versuvius like.

And that's when I rang you.



He's still sitting on the couch waiting for her reply...



International Man’s Day



If she gets a day, then so should I.
The time is nigh, but I don’t deny
she pulls her weight around the house
and her cooking’s grouse (she’s quite the spouse),
but since we’ve had, oh, what do you say?
That Women’s Day, that purple display,
to celebrate me, I’ll clean the place
at such a pace she’ll think I’m ace.

I’ll even scrub the feral wok.
Soap suds will flock; she’ll think I rock
and then I’ll tidy up the yard;
it can’t be hard and buy her char-
donnay, the best; it costs five bucks
(I think it sucks), but she’s deluxe
and for her I will also tote
a post-it note(and will not gloat)

that tells me to PUT DOWN THE SEAT.
Now, what a treat. That’s hard to beat
and she will not scream from the loo
as she’d normally do in such a stew
for not just will the seat be down
but a full roll wound I cleverly found
with the other loo rolls she hides so well
on the window sill. And I’m no dill.

After all these jobs are done
I’ll suck up scum, as vacuuming’s fun
and dust her precious ornaments
and ceiling vents and pay the rent
and other bills and fines and fees
(it’s such a breeze If yur organeezed).
I’ll scour the laundry and shower too
and TA DAH! The loo, with flair, I do.

And scrub the sink of facial hair,
the shavings there beyond compare,
and then the bath, I polish it well.
It sparkles ‘til my head does swell.
I then pick up my path that flows
of winding clothes and socks and shoes.
Ecstatic she will be tonight
I’m a bit of all right. She’ll show delight.

Especially when I cook the dinner
and tell her she’s thinner, she’s with a winner.
No chore undone, a spotless home
and bubbly foam in a bath to roam.
My darling will be in such bliss
in the bath’s abyss and I’ll blow a kiss
and because I’ve cleaned ‘til the house shines bright
I’m a shining light and if my cards play right,

oh yes, we had that Women’s Day
(they’re quite ok in the strangest way).
But if she’s had HER day, tonight is MINE
and because I shine and she thinks I’m fine,
I’m sure she’ll want to thank me, yes,
for I ‘m the best and she is blessed.
So off I pop into our bedroom now,
where I’ll “take a bow” and she’ll purr “meow”…

                          …if she ever gets out of the bath.