All the neighbours knew John was a clueless twit, some days a plonker, others a numpty, sometimes even a daft git, depending on his latest blunder. The size of his mess-up matched the strength of his wife Eleanor’s fury.
To her husband though, Eleanor was always Bunny, Foxy, Sunshine, or Sweet Pea. Hearing her shrieks, people thought the local bear was surely about to swipe at the hare, but then remembering he was really that clueless twit, concluded never. John could play deaf and mute, utterly ignoring her yells and insults. His sheer calmness, his indifference to her rage, only fuelled her longer fits. Exhausted shouting, Eleanor stormed out. A hard lump choked her throat. Red blotches flared on her face, hands trembled, voice rasped. She longed to sob, but tears were dry. As she left, John softly called, “Oi, Bunny, where you off?”
Their first married years were quiet and peaceful. If anyone had said those gentle days would sour into constant rows, Eleanor would never have believed it. She’d wed her true love, utterly devoted, not someone she’d call a plonker! John worked as a welder. Never touched a drop or smoke. Calm as a badger sett, always content, life suited him. Wives of drinkers or layabouts held him up as a model, so Eleanor was proud. They delayed children. They needed a garage, a garden shed, a car first. The council gave them a house, and Eleanor longed to fix it up smartly.
John was incredibly slow, perhaps bone idle. Tasks always idled, waiting for him. He’d grin, “Work’ll outlive us. No need to rush. Personal lack of desire means shouldn’t even start. That turns effort into self-exploitation.” Leading from the front never suited him. Eleanor tackled jobs herself, as good as John: dug the allotment, painted the house, mowed the lawn, split kindling for the shed. Thankfully, the house had modern plumbing, saving her the water-dragging drudgery. Faster and easier doing it herself than rousing her man. One night, a huge crash woke them – tiles John had laid had slid from top to bottom. ‘Ham-fisted!’ she cried, hiring a proper tradesman next day.
One evening she came home to ruin. Her flower patch was trodden into mud by next door’s cow, bloomin’ stems snapped where John left the gate open. Eleanor despised his dawdle, his laziness, his couldn’t-care-less attitude more each day.
Next door stood an orphaned cottage. The old owners died, the inheritors briefly kept the weeds at bay before quitting the property. But then a posh German car pulled up. It was Peter’s grandson come to live permanently. He’d worked in Aberdeen, married there, but reckoned his roots were best for living.
Denis started rebuilding the old place. Then he showed Eleanor what *not letting work slip* really meant. He handled building, welding, electrics like a proper craftsman, doing it all alone. His wife stayed inside, handling chores and the baby.
Seeing his neighbour, Eleanor grew ever angrier at John. Tired of being strong, she craved weakness. She nudged him repeatedly towards jobs any bloke should manage. But John, no leader even in home affairs, was fine playing second fiddle. Worn out, Eleanor snapped more, her insults sharper. Folks saw her as a battleaxe, him unfortunate. She considered divorce; she couldn’t pull the whole load alone forever, starting to hold Denis up as an example. John just smiled and said, “Other blokes always seem tougher, fleece thicker.”
John completely missed her divorce hints. Some women suffered drinkers, chancers, but here she was, loved not beaten, yet wanting divorce? He never moaned about where she went or her spending. “So I’m slow?” he thought. “Where’s the fire? Why flap over nothing? Why tell the missus her jobs? She knows best. Okay, I botched the tiling, but I earn decent enough. Hire a pro. Sure, I want a lie-in Sunday. She should rest too! Basically, worry about your own bin lid, not the neighbour’s.” John sighed by the telly, scratched his head, and settled. “Why’d Bunny want divorce?”
Eleanor took milk for the neighbour’s tot each evening. Vicky invited her to dinner, cracking open some wine. Like a lord, Denis sat; Vicky scurried as a maid. “Pass the salt! Always underseasoned! Where’s the pepper? You know I like my meat burnt proper! This bottle deserved better! Where are napkins? Corkscrew? It’s lukewarm! Why’d you boil it dry?! Fetch! Bring! Clear! Shut it, I know best! Didn’t ask your opinion!” – this patter lasted all night.
Little Tommy cried. Vicky went next door to him. Flustered, Eleanor asked about the new furniture Vicky mentioned wanting. The wife returned, hearing the topic, tried to explain her choice.
“*I* buy, *you* get. What *you* want means squat! Easy spending dough, harder where it comes from!” Eleanor’s heart sank. Seeing such a quiet, meek wife treated like rubbish, she cursed Denis silently but saying aloud meant war. Glancing at the supposedly ‘happy pair’, the wretched Eleanor trudged home.
“Alright, Bunny? You about? Brewed tea like yours.”
Eleanor hugged him. John stared, amazed, making her awkward.
“Go on Bunny, breathe deep. Bet they swapped milk for something hard, hence this sweetness you’re showing.”
Suddenly, his flaws mattered less. Divorce thoughts stopped. Forget peeking next door, polish your own!
“John love, what shall I cook tomorrow?”
“Up to you, pet. Whatever causes least strife.”
“John… I want new furniture.”
“Want it? Buy it. Your house. Makes no odds to me where I perch and watch the box.”
“John… how ’bout a new donkey jacket for you?”
“Pointless. This one’s barely seven years old. *You* need fur!”
They ‘Bunny’d’ and ‘John-dear’d’ along, happy like in the old days, long into the night.
“John… my divorce threat? Was just wind-up.”
“Reckoned that. Where’s the fire? We can always get unhitched later.”
Eleanor studied her husband. Truly, haste makes waste. God save me from some go-getter like my neighbour! Better this slow coach, ready to serve, not be king on his throne.
She flung nasty names at her John far less often, growing gladder she stuck with him. Word to the wise, best leave good alone. So John’s like he is. Like what? Eleanor suddenly laughed quietly. “Exactly like this! And thank heavens he’s not the same as them!”
The Neighbors’ Unforgettable Nicknames for the Clumsy Man
