(Thought I'd try something different today. Here's a short story I wrote, from a man's viewpoint. I had to add that, as I've confused some people!)
I have a black eye.
It's a shiner all right. Black, blue and purple with streaks of red. The aurora borealis has nothing on my black eye.
Yesterday started well too. Wifey Maureen cooked my breakfast, made me a packed lunch and laid out my clothes on the bed, before setting off to catch the bus to get to her job as a hairdresser in Jack The Clipper. I helpfully told her: "You'd better get a wiggle on with my fried egg or you'll miss the 7.15."
She glared at me before replying, rather sarcastically I thought: "You reckon? No, dear, don't you move whatever you do."
I finished my cornflakes and egg on toast before putting the dishes in the sink and my dirty clothes in a pile in front of the washing machine, all ready for her when she gets home. I like to be helpful.
Then I got off to work. It was a good day. I had a meeting in the morning, then Jack and I went out to lunch at Boobies and was served by a hot little waitress. Then in the afternoon I crunched some figures. I asked Julia to get me a cup of coffee and she said: "What did your last slave die of?" and I answered wittily, "Not enough to do!" She flounced off. Women have no sense of humour.
I never did get that cup of coffee.
Back home I settled down to watch TV as Maureen got the dinner. She plonked a lap tray in front of me - pork chops, veg, potatoes and one of Aunt Bessie's Yorkshire puddings. I picked the Yorkshire pudding up on my fork and waved it at her. "You should make your own," I said. "I watched someone cook them on TV. It didn't look that difficult, even you could do it."
She opened her mouth as if to say something but seemed to think better of it.
Later she told me a man on a building site had wolf-whistled and shouted: "You don't get many of those to a pound, love!"
I laughed. "It's just not funny," she said. "I want to be able to walk down a street without being hassled."
"Come on, love. You should be grateful a man noticed your knockers," I told her.
She did that open and close mouth thing again. I was about to tell her she looked like a goldfish when she EXPLODED.
"Grateful? GRATEFUL?" she shouted. "Grateful that some dickhead feels it's OK to harass women in the street? Grateful that I can't walk down the high street without feeling embarrassed? Grateful that everyone was staring at me and sniggering?"
I was shocked at her outburst. But I tried to see her side of the argument. After all, I'm not a sexist. I do let her go to work.
She still looked furious so I tried to calm her down. "But you do look nice, love…… when you make the effort."
It was then she picked up a book called Sexual Politics and lobbed it in my direction. It was a hardback and the corner hit me straight in the eye.
I don't know why she got so emotional. It must be her time of the month.