Mrs M is due to speak at a conference in a few weeks time and amidst all the excitement of getting ready for the event she has decided that she needs to go on a diet in order to fit into her chosen outfit. The only problem is that when she says 'I' she means 'we'.
Somehow I have been dragged into things. I suggested that I didn't need to be included because I am not attending said conference, and instead shall be spending the day in the pub with some mates. None of whom will be even faintly interested in either my weight or my BMI.
This didn't wash with my bride and it seems I don't have a choice in the matter. She muttered something about needing my support and she wandered off to gorge on some lettuce. I tried to point out that when I support my favourite football team it doesn't involve actually kicking a ball but she wasn't convinced.
As part of this new regime we have increased the length and intensity of our evening stroll. Included in our workout is a brisk walk up the towpath of the Five Rise Locks.
Our normal routine includes spending our time chatting about a variety of subjects. This has, however, been somewhat restricted by the incline we now have to traverse.
We start off with a few words but it isn't long before silence descends apart from the panting noises we make as we try to breathe.
Because Mrs M is due to speak at her conference she takes our walks as opportunities to rehearse her chosen topic in front of her audience of one. This means that I do little of the talking until, that is, we reach the Five Rise Locks and my bride has to concentrate on the incline and breathing.
I have taken this as my time to get a few words in edge ways.
Not happy with this intrusion into her thought patterns my wife asked me during our walk today to wait until we arrived at the top.
I asked her why it should matter given that she is unable to offer any input into the conversation during this time. Her reasoning; she feels frustrated when she thinks of thinks to add and can't do so.
At this point I take the opportunity of highlighting the fact that whereas she isn't fit enough to converse I, in fact, am.
I suggest that this means I don't need to join her in her decision to go on a diet.
'But I need your support' she gasps.
'OK' I reply 'But don't ask me to kick a ball
One on a diet. All on a diet!
Tweeters or Twirlies
A few days ago I overheard one of my daughters calling us 'the wrinklies'; I immediately looked in the mirror and realised that the description was a fair one.
I offered some protestation, however, because it is not an accurate name for Mrs M. She may be three weeks older that me but she looks youthful. I know that I definitely married up.
Trying to offer support I commented that she didn't look a day over forty. She was quick to point out that we are at the age when such compliments don't work, mainly because forty still has the ring of age about it.
I shouldn't be too upset with being called a wrinkly as, much to their amusement, we have been using the title for our parents for a number of years; they must be thicker skinned than us.
I told my dad about the latest stage we have reached, and commented that, if we have arrived the moment where our laughter lines have determined our description, what should his generation now be called.
He informed me that his generation already had a new name. Apparently the local bus drivers in his locality have started carling them 'twirlies'.
I asked him why; suggesting that perhaps it referred to their dancing abilities and deftness of foot when getting on and off buses. But no!
He went on to describe how the name only applies to a five-minute period between twenty-five past nine and nine-thirty in the morning.
Evidently, as the drivers arrive at each bus stop during this period they are greeted to the sight of groups of pensioners all asking 'Are we too early to use our free bus passes?'
Hence the name Twirly. I guess it's a northern thing.
It does strike me as excellent that the elderly of Britain time their morning journey for maximum value.
Before the introduction of the free bus passes there was nothing to stop them setting off on their journeys as early as they desired.
I asked my dad why pensioners were so eager to travel during the early morning and he simple replied 'because we run out of sleep'.
'Added to this' he said 'is the fact that we need to get back for our tea'.
Apparently this is the age when you can no longer eat onions passed five o'clock without your whole sleep pattern being disturbed.
It struck me as ironic that whilst my wife and I are all too eager (tweagre) to use our social networking sites before nine-thirty our parents prefer to get out of the house and meet people for real.
Where we are tweeters whilst they are twirlies!
In Ballet They Don't Call It Skipping
Last weekend we celebrated our twenty-ninth wedding anniversary. We decided long ago that the main stay of our celebratory presents for such events would not be surprises.
You might see this as a lack of romance but I am pretty sure the Mrs M was being pragmatic when she suggested we should adopt such a position. After all why risk valuable gift money being wasted on items that you might not want. In truth I have been known to buy things that seemed sensible to me but didn't fit with a female perspective on gift buying (we won't mention the sowing box of 1988).
For this year's anniversary my bride hinted well in advance that we had never been to see a ballet. She started this process well in advance during our trip to see Strictly Come Dancing. What started out as a reasonable wish to watch a tango from close up turned into a desire to spend a couple of hours viewing pirouettes.
With this said we set off for Sheffield to watch the Northern Ballet's rendition of Wuthering Heights.
The Lyceum theatre was superb and the cast were clearly were world class; it wasn't long before the whole audience were spellbound, including myself.
Mrs M lapped up every minute of the performance and during the interval she seemed eager to find out what I made of this dancing feast.
I pointed out that, although I appreciated the skill of both the performers and the orchestra, I wasn't fully sure what was happening in the story.
My bride tried to help by enquiring what was going through my mind as I watched; I think she felt that this might show that I understood at some deeper level.
'Well' I said, trying to be honest, 'most of the time I was thinking how much all of the male dancers looked like 'Alistair McGowen'.
She looked slightly disappointed as if hoping that somewhere inside this eighteen stone ex - rugby player was a cultured heart.
'In addition' I continued 'I was counting how many times they skipped'.
Apparently this wasn't the answer she wanted and she tried to tell me that in the ballet it isn't called skipping.
On the plus side I bought ice creams for us both; it seems that I didn't choose well and so I had to eat the one that Mrs M rejected and then go back for another of the one I had chosen for myself. Result!
We settled down to watch the second half and I tried to view it through enlightened eyes. At the end my bride again asked for my opinion. 'It would have been better if they had ended with the Kate Bush song' I offered.
