“I’ve got to go to the shops,” Tracey called out from the kitchen. She didn’t sound pleased.
“I’ll go,” I called back. I had some work to do too so I wouldn’t be pleased either, but I’d get over it by bedtime and I wasn’t convinced Tracey would.
I like Tracey to be in a good mood when we go to bed.
“Would you?” she said, sticking her head around the corner to smile encouragingly at me.
“No probs,” I smiled back. “What do you need?”
Whenever I have to buy pads I go through the same mental gymnastics every time. I wonder if I should be embarrassed when I buy them. I think I probably just saw an ad or Paul Hogan skit on the telly when I was growing up and the premise stuck with me.
“Alrighty,” I said, “I’ll get myself some beer too.”
Tracey also goes through some mental gymnastics when she sends me out to buy pads, which inevitably culminates in the following statement:
“But don’t buy me anything with Tina written on it!”
At first I couldn’t think what the significance of this woman’s name might be, but then I remembered I have a well established habit of coming home with incontinent products instead.
“Here, take the phone,” Tracey said, ferreting around in her handbag and pulling out our iPhone.
“In case you think of something else you want?”
“No,” she said, pressing the screen a few times before handing it over. “After your last effort I thought to take a picture of the pads I want. Just walk along the aisle until you find them.”
She’s so smart, my wife. I really am a very lucky man.
“No worries,” I said, giving her a kiss on the cheek and grabbing the keys. “See you in a bit.”
It would be a half hour round trip and I’d fret about all the stuff I wasn’t getting done, but anything to keep her happy for when bedtime comes around.
Which was when the penny dropped as to what I was going shopping for and how that would affect my plans for the evening.
Ah, well. At least I had beer.
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