Home again

Sometimes it’s the very simple things in life which are the most enjoyable. Take, for example, a fresh egg French omelette flipped over at home for me by my husband on a quiet Saturday. Last night I’d say I had a Mmmh… moment; and that definitely came with a capital M.

I’ve been staying away with work for what feels like forever. But now I’m back in the sack. So to speak.

“I wanted to give you a great welcome,” said Guido.

And boy did he ever give me one.

He was standing shirtless at the stove, and trust me Guido’s no sack of potatoes. He’s big. He’s hairy. He’s fit. From where I was standing he was cooking with gas in more ways than one. I raised a wine glass in a very appreciative salute.

The eggs bubbled.

I put an arm around his waist and randomly squeezed his jogging pants. You won’t be surprised to read my hand was drawn to somewhere around the crotch area.

“You know,” I said, “ I can detect you’re not wearing any underpants.”

I reluctantly loosened my grip. I took a slug of booze.

“Hey,” he said holding up his spatula defensively, I’m only frying an omelette here.”

All the more reason to be wearing underpants, I thought.

“It’s true, you know what they say, about absence making the heart grow fonder.”

I knew he meant it because when he flipped that omelette I could see it wasn’t the only thing rising to the occasion.

You know I’ve missed his company, the chat, the laughs, picking up his smelly socks. I’ve even missed that weird sound he makes in the middle of the night like his throat is a dripping tap.

“I suppose there were some up sides to staying in a hotel,” I said. “I didn’t have to make the bed, and, being alone it’s meant I’ve made it half way through Dr Zhivago. You’ve no idea how gripping Boris Pasternak can be under the sheets.”

“That all sounds pretty heavy and worryingly intellectual,” said Guido frowning.

I sliced my hot omelette with relish. At that exact second you have no idea how thankful I was not to be anywhere near post a revolutionary Russian.

“So, I’m intrigued, how d ‘you fill all that time here without me?” I asked.

There was a short but thoughtful silence.

“Hmm… working in the cafe and GAY porn,” said Guido blinking.

This was not sounding in any way pretty heavy or really intellectual. It was veering more to the Neanderthal and sordid but nevertheless still obviously fun under the sheets.

“Hang on,” he said, that’s not strictly true because sometimes I surfed the net for sticky rib recipes.”

There was another short silence.

”But yeah, mostly it was GAY porn.”

I had to admire his honesty. Sticky rib recipes are hard to find.

“I see,” I said, “well I’m back now. I doubt I’ll be progressing much further with turning the pages of Dr Zhivago but I’m not in any way promising you I can deliver an accurate snapshot of Dino Does Dallas.”

Just so you know, I’ve never actually done Dallas.

Much later, when we were both tucked up in bed and Guido was fast asleep, I lay there thinking just one thing.

There’s really no place like home.

Scenes from a marriage

I’ve been working hard in Manchester. It’s been lonely.  I’m home for four days. On the plane I calculated this meant I’d have around 5760 minutes to eat copious amounts of Guido’s food and fit in as much hot sex as I could before I had to fly back. I’ve figured if I eat faster it’ll free up even more time to take my clothes off.

Last night, in the middle of a mouthful of ravioli, my father called.

“Have you spoken to your Mother?” he asked.

No hello, it’s me, or a how are you?

“No,” I said quickly, on account of the parmigiana sauce.

“I see,” he said, and then hung up without saying a good-bye.

About thirty minutes later the phone rang again. This time it was my mother, Cruella.

Just to set the scene for you – the pasta was over and we’d happily moved on to the hot sex part. Guido and I were naked and re-enacting a love scene from The Adventures of Robin Hood. Guido loves to fire his arrow. We’d just got the part where Errol Flynn throws Olivia De Havilland up against a column and he tells her that he’s nothing to offer but a life time of hardship and danger. Which sure rang a bell.

“I was wondering if you and Guido would come over for lunch tomorrow?” Cruella purred.

There was an awkward pause on my end of the line for obvious reasons.

The last time my mother “cooked” it involved a pineapple chunk and a cube of cheese on a cocktail stick.

“Perhaps, Guido would rustle up something wonderful?” she asked.

I sighed. I suppose she wasn’t to know he was going to be busy for the next 4320 minutes. So I said yes and hung up and then went straight back to Sherwood Forest. Hey, don’t judge, the clock was ticking, right?

We took the Underground over to her apartment this afternoon. Guido had a Tupperware box stuffed with a potato watercress salad and a salmon under one arm. When we got inside I knew my mother meant business because she’s taken the plastic cover off the sofa.

“There’s something I want to tell you,” she said.

Then she just sat there staring at me like I should’ve been the one telling her something. So I just stared back.

“And?” I said, finally.

She took a sip of Gin. The ice rattled.

“I suppose I should just go right ahead and tell you,” she said.

I stared.

She took another sip of Gin. The ice still rattled.

“It’s your father,” she finally gasped dramatically, “you see, he’s asked me to marry him again.”

I stared.

“And,” she said, “well, after much consideration, I’ve said yes.”

Tonight Guido has a pot roast on the stove. I think there’s a chicken in there. I’ve drunk almost a whole bottle of wine, but I don’t care. In fact, I’m about to open another. I’ve spent a whole hour trying to talk Guido into buying a pair of green tights so that we can make our love scenes together more authentic but I’m sensing he’s not that keen.

Tomorrow, I’ll call my mother. I’ll tell her I’m very happy for her.

Then I’ll call my father and ask him if he’s insane, and if he knows whether it’s hereditary.