If
this were a blog I would have stopped reading after the third sentence. Yet, somehow, it is being published by The Times. Of all the interesting, thoughtful, well written diaries of marriages, this is the one they chose. {It's only saving grace is that once The Times starts charging £2 a week for the privilege of seeing their site perhaps it won't come to so many people's attention.}
I quote:
"It’s about six o’ clock. I’m filling up the car with petrol and trying to send a text on my new mobile. When I tap the touch-sensitive screen the wrong letters pop up, and finding the contact list is like a complicated IQ test. I’m about to pay when I realise with a sickening thud that I’ve put petrol in the diesel estate. I’m hoping that the amiable Asian man behind the till will be able to siphon out the diesel with an old bit of pipe for a fiver. He says: “Don’t start the engine”, and then, paradoxically, “get the car off the forecourt as soon as possible”. He adds that the AA will charge £200 to fix it.
I manage to call my husband. He replies with a gruff hello. When he hears my appalling news he sighs, mumbles something about staying with the car and hangs up. A few seconds later, I press my finger on his name again. I have no membership details for the RAC. It’s dark now, and cold. I sit in the car but am too afraid to turn on the engine in case the car blows up. I read the back of a packet of crisps twice. He calls back and says the RAC will arrive in a couple of hours. So I walk home. We wait for the RAC and we wait. At 9pm the nice Asian man calls to say he will fine me £500 if the car is not moved.
My husband heads to the garage. An hour passes. I ring him, but there’s no reply. I text. Nothing. Then I ring. By now it’s 11pm. Perhaps he’s been mugged. I imagine a policewoman will turn up to inform me of his death. He can’t be still waiting for the RAC. It’s about 11.30 when I notice a text from him. It’s cryptic: just details of the RAC. I’m convinced it’s a desperate plea for help. He’d just managed to press one button on his phone before he was stabbed. I am about to sob with grief and remorse when he walks through the door.
I rush towards him. I have never been more pleased to see anyone in my life."
{Kate Morris, writing a Diary of Marriage in The Times}
What utter boll***cks. What happened to being self-sufficient. To writing about something more interesting than cars stuck on forecourts. Even I didn't bore everyone* with my story of car troubles, even though it was easily the most drama I'd experienced since the argument we had with Virgin the week before last**. Come on The Times. Give some coverage to a decent writer/blogger.
*Except on Twitter, obvs. But that's different. More transient. Falls down a page faster. That sort of thing.
** Country living. Every bit as exciting as you can imagine.
