Did the dishes yet again. Its been three days and the sink looks like the aftermath of Glastonbury. Not a single clean mug left for a cuppa. I waited, hoping someone else might take pity, but absolutely nothing doing. Came home from work, famished, grumpy, knackered. But before I can even think about food, I have to wash everything or else Ill be eating off a chopping board.
To top it all off, the fridge is practically empty. All I managed was to flick the kettle on and chuck a saucepan of water on the hob. Might have to settle for boiled sausagesdesperate times call for desperate measures. Honestly, never imagined life could turn so bleak Oh, the things Id do for a bowl of Heathers legendary stew right now!
And dont get me started on the pies! Oh, and the pasties, stuffed with magic. The ribs, her showstopper. The house always sparkling, everything in its place. Coming in after a slog at work, the air smelling fresh as a spring morning. And now? Well…
How did I miss all that? It seemed Heather was just about cooking and washing, nothing fancy.
Then one day I saw Sophie. Glamorous, short skirt, teetering on heels, just leaving a beauty parlour. She looked like she belonged on the cover of Vogue, absolutely immaculate. At the time, it made sense…
Heather wasnt one for beauty parlours, never splurged on highlights or bought expensive shampoo. She wasnt one to strut her stuff in boutique shops either. Always slim, always beautiful, just never fussed. Always in jeans and trainers, in and out of Tesco or bustling round the house.
I love someone else! I told Heather when I got home. Im leavingI cant pretend anymore.
Heather kept whisking cream for a Victoria sponge, didnt even turn round. I didnt notice the tears sliding down her cheeks…
I was tired of seeing just a housekeeper next to me, not a woman. Thats why Sophie seemed so tempting. And now, here I am, doing dishes, mopping floors, cleaning up god knows what. Havent quite got my culinary skills up to scratch, and at night I dream about Heathers pies…
Sophies got a fresh manicure, so obviously she cant do the dishes. Shes lounging on the sofa, idly leafing through Cosmo, disappearing off to refresh her hair at the salon. Dresses strewn across the carpet, and Ive tripped over her stilettos more times than I care to count. No idea what shell wear next, and that empty glass at the door is still sitting untouched since yesterday.
Why did I swap my wife for a woman who treats laziness like an Olympic sport? Im half-starvedmaybe Ill boil up some pasta and call it dinner. At this rate, Ill waste away before the weeks out.
