Dead in a ditch somewhere

I wanted to kill my husband yesterday, except I thought he was already dead.

I woke up at 5.45am to discover he wasn’t lying beside me in bed.

The last I’d seen him was the night before, when he dashed off to catch a bus at 6.30pm. Some drinks thingy in town. I had no idea where.

As I levered my aching body off the mattress (must get to a physio soon, my neck and left shoulder are killing me), I didn’t think much of it. He’s a bit of an insomniac, so I expected to find him downstairs. I grabbed my heat pack and headed to the kitchen to chuck it in the microwave.

The stirrings of panic began when there weren’t any signs of the usual Husband detritus after his big night out. His clothes, bag, shoes etc usually lie strewn across the lounge room where he’s discarded them.

He wasn’t in the spare room either.

And that’s when I started to really freak out. I called his mobile phone. No answer.

I imagined the worst – he must be dead in a ditch (or a gutter) somewhere. I started constructing scenarios of how I’d try and track him down. Who was he out with? How would I get their number? When should I call the police?

(Confession: I also harboured the faintest hint of resentment towards him for being so thoughtless as to get himself killed and create such a bloody problem for me, when I’d been planning a nice relaxing morning, going for a walk and having a bit of a pootle on the computer.)

(Second confession: I also thought “well at least he’s got life insurance.”)

Then my phone rang. I clutched it to my ear tremulously. It was him.

“Where are you?” he muttered, which was pretty rich considering the circumstances.

“I’m at home,” I squeaked. “Where are YOU?”

“I’m in the eldest’s room,” he replied. The eldest is at camp, so her bed is free. But I’d forgotten in my dark search.

Right, well, I hung up on him quick smart and stomped out of the house for a fury walk.

I’m presuming he fell back into a comatose state. But revenge was swift and brutal.

At 6.45am the eldest’s dalek alarm started screeching “Exterminate! Exterminate!” at him and he couldn’t work out how to turn it off, so it just kept doing it at 10 minute intervals – interspersed with the noise of a jackhammer on the road outside our house – until he gave up and stumbled out of bed.

When I returned I was very terse with him. He agreed that he hadn’t handled it very well and that he wasn’t surprised I thought he was dead. His excuse? He was worried about getting into trouble for coming home at 2am.

So he crept into bed downstairs so as not to wake me up. And got himself into even more trouble …

During the course of our argument,  he dug up a rather unfortunate incident from MY past, when I stumbled home at 4am and HE thought I was dead. Mainly because I never stay out past 10pm normally (in fact I struggle to stay awake past 9.30pm most nights).

So I dug up the even more unfortunate incident from HIS distant past, where he stayed out until 10am the next morning with an EX-GIRLFRIEND. I never yell, but boy did I yell that morning, when he finally got his sorry arse home. And then I kicked him out. And then I only agreed to let him come back if he agreed to a 2am curfew.

We’ve both agreed to handle things with a little more thought and consideration in future.

And he’s got a vicious headache.

Serves him right.