He's doing it again.
One of the many things that drives me nuts. He's rescued an empty bourbon bottle out of the recycling, filled it with water and is now marching about the house with it, swigging as he goes.
"Oh for God's sake", I say, "why can't you just drink water out of a glass or water bottle like normal people?"
"This IS a water bottle now" he retorts, ensuring the water makes the maximum sloshing noise as he upends the bottle over his head for another thirst-quenching quaff. "I'd have thought you'd have appreciated that, what with us being newly fledged members of the Green Party and all. I'm recycling. Look!"
"You look like a jakey!"
This was all I could come up with. OK I admit it. I can't think of a particularly logical reason for wanting to outlaw this routine; I just don't want to see my husband stoating about looking like an alcoholic vagrant.
Even if it is in the privacy of our own home.
In the dead of night.
With the curtains closed.
What is so galling about it really, though? I can't fathom it. I mean, I know he wouldn't walk down the street doing it. It's just a pet dislike of mine.
Of course, Matt takes great delight in repeating little acts of annoyance that I can't find logical reasons for him not to do, and that makes it all the more annoying.
But those of us, who have been together for a while must all be allowed to annoy our partners in just such a way. It's one of the pleasures and pains of the whole relationship thing, I suppose.
This winter, I bought a furry brown fleecy coat from Uniqlo with a hood that zips up the front to form the cosiest cocoon you can imagine. I know I look like a case of horrendously bad taxidermy in it, but I don't care. It's the most comforting, comfortable, cosy thing you can ever imagine wearing and even though it is pretty much summer here I still wear it about the house every chance I get.
Whenever it puts in an appearance, Matt sighs heavily.
This is patently not how he imagined marriage.
He calls it my bear costume.
Unfortunately this only serves to encourage me, as it brings back fond memories of a lion costume my mother made for me for Halloween out of an old camel coat when I was about 5 years old . I remember being indescribably thrilled with it and equally indescribably insulted when a neighbour mistook my mother's creative efforts for a bear.
"Well," says he tremulously, "At least you never go out looking like that".
(He doesn't know this but I have once. Down the shops. Don't tell him though, eh.)
