Things have turned a little nasty in the danzers household of late. Not vicious, just nasty.
It seems as though my wife was a tiny bit 'miffed' about my phone trap a little while back. She hasn’t mentioned it, but it’s been awkward at the dinner table. She knows I know she knows, and I know she knows I know she knows. Get it!
She read my text and was caught, but instead of putting up her evil dragon claw, admitting it and taking it like a silver tipped arrow to the heart, she has taken to a form of 'soft revenge'. What I mean by soft revenge is that she hasn’t cut up my Hugo Boss suits or replaced the kidney beans in my chilli with female hormone replacement tablets. No. A revenge that suits her personality: deceitful two-faced and yet cunning like a fox; hence she’s an accomplished Solicitor.
Alas, being a good Solicitor also means that it is more or less impossible for me, the dominant male, to win any argument even when the odds are stacked against her. If I were to find her in bed with the entire English Rugby team performing a sex act that even Lola Ferrari would have been ashamed of, I would still lose in Court on the grounds of unreasonable behaviour, ie: having disturbed her before climax.
I never really argue with her anymore. I have had my time being subjected to torturous interrogation and un-scrupulous cross-examination by a woman trained to make international terrorists whimper, I would simply run away and curl up in a ball in the showing, crying for hours.
OK. I get in my car. Seatbelt on, I start the engine and POW! Fifty billion tiny pieces of white paper engulf me, spewing out of the car air vents like Krakatoa, covering me from head to toe. After the initial shock, I look around dazed, spit out a few bits of paper and experience first hand what it must have been like for those poor souls in Pompeii. I pick up a handful of dust and admire the simplicity yet destructive nature of my wife’s crime.
Hole-punch paper. You know? The tiny bits of round paper that is left over in the bottom of a hole punch. Millions. She must have been a champion hole puncher to have got her grubby hands on this many. Her right hand must be aching more than mine ever would after a night in with a beer and a Debbie Does Dallas DVD.
I can’t believe the trouble she must have gone to. To have collected more tiny pieces of hole punch remnants than is produced annually by a small eastern European Country. Carefully placing it all in my air vents and then setting the climate control to full throttle when the engine is turned on.
Brilliant and calculated. If I didn’t dislike her so much it would have been almost laughable. To make matters worse, as I stepped out of the car and covered the whole County in a huge blanket of white paper snow, I saw the upstairs curtains move. She must have been laughing in her witches’ broth.
This calls for some more Steven Seagal movies......