It’s true, his mates were impressed at first. I mean, just look at her! There was a lot of sucking in guts and trying to make her laugh and yes, let’s be honest, pure jealousy. I mean, just look at her! But as the weeks go on, the patience with the mates wears thin. They’re getting fed up holding their bellies in, and talking about celebrities and pop stars they’ve never heard of (and she’s never heard of Status Quo? The Quo? You must know The Quo?) and let’s be honest, she’s old enough to be babysitting the grand-kids. Then the wives turn up, and they cut her to shreds in that nice never-stop-smiling way, glaring at their husbands. It’s all very awkward.
And he’s getting tired of it too. Yes, he left the wife, and the sex was great but Jaysus he’s knackered and fed up with nightclubs and don’t get him started on Oxegen, where some young fella called him “Gramps” and nearly burnt the tent down. Then she starts dressing him, and his son, who’s a year younger then her, takes one look at his bulging Hollister top, and walks out of the room muttering to himself.
Three months in, he’s had enough. To hell with the short skirts and the high heels, he’s fed up traipsing around Dundrum dropping €500 every time. He’d rather be watching the golf.
He meets the wife, and begs to be allowed home. She lets him, and when she and the girls go to New York for the week and the credit card bill comes the following month with manual handling instructions attached, he wisely says nothing. Reparations, he tells the lads. The price of peace. What did she get up to in New York? Rumours come back to him from the other wives. Don’t ask, don’t tell. Sleeping dogs lie. Let the hare sit.
Falling asleep in front of the “The Eagle has Landed” after a wedge of Shepherd’s Pie and a glass of Wolf Blass on a Saturday afternoon. That’s what he really wants.
Now, where’s that Harley Davidson catalogue?