**Why Cyril No Longer Tells His Wife What He Wants for Dinner**
This morning, as I left for work, I couldnt help but ask my wife, “Why dont you ever ask what Id like for dinner anymore? Or does it not matter to you now?”
Emma shrugged. “I thought Id just make something I fancied. But if youd rather have something specific, I can do that.”
“Its not about that,” I said, frowning. “Its the principle. Is it really so hard to ask? Dont you care?”
“Honestly?” She sighed. “Not really. Whats so interesting about it?”
“Oh, is that so?” I scoffed. “You used to ask. Guess it mattered back then!”
Emma paused, considering. *Hmm. Shes rightshe did ask before. Blimey, this is awkward. Better humour him, or hell keep on about it all day.*
“What would you like for dinner, then?” she asked flatly.
I smirked. *Ah, so shes doing me a favour now. Well, no need to be difficult. Marriage is about compromise, after all. Im not some controlling bloke. Gotta be patient, forgivingelse, what kind of man am I?*
“Alright,” I said magnanimously. “Shepherds pie.”
“What kind?” she pressed. “Lamb or beef? Or I could do fish pie?”
“Anything but fish!” I groaned. “Youre having me on, arent you? You know Ive hated fish pie since primary school.”
*Oh, bollocks,* she thought. *Whyd I say that? Hes gone on about those wretched fish pies for yearshow they made him gag in the school canteen. Now hell be on about it all week. Better fix this. And dont forgethe hates blancmange too.*
“What about sides?” she asked quickly. “Mash, chips, or rice? Or maybe peas?”
“Roast potatoes,” I said. “And make sure theyre crispy, not soggy.”
“Of course, darling,” she cooed. “Crispy it is.”
“Not that Im worried,” I added airily. “Youre the one who should be.”
*Why did I say that?* I mentally kicked myself. *Trying to act superior? What a prat. Still got a long way to go before Im half the man I pretend to be.*
“If its not too much trouble, love,” I added softly, “a tomato and cucumber salad would be nice.”
“Consider it done,” she said sweetly.
“With garlic and parsley.”
“Garlic and parsley,” she echoed, smiling.
“And a dollop of sour cream.”
“Sour cream.”
“And sprinkle the potatoes with parsley and onions.”
“Whatever you want, dear.”
I kissed her goodbye and left, but the whole way to work, something nagged at me. Emma wasnt herself. Something was off. Distracted all day, I barely got anything done.
*Never mind,* I told myself. *Tonight, well talk properly. Maybe Ive upset her without realising. Best sort it out before it festers.*
Come evening, I pushed my fork half-heartedly through the shepherds pie, watching as Emma devoured a roast chicken, slathered in gravy, grinning between bites.
“Hold on,” I said. “Why are you eating chicken? I thought we were having shepherds pie.”
“Fancied chicken instead,” she said cheerfully. “When you mentioned pie, I realised I didnt want it. So I made this. Garlic-roasted. Bloody delicious.”
“But I thought wed both eat the same thing,” I muttered.
*Oh, he did, did he?* she mused. *As if Id touch his dreary pie.*
“Sorry, love,” she said through a mouthful. “But this way, we both get what we like. Brilliant, isnt it?”
“Charming,” I mumbled. “Can I have some chicken? Looks proper tasty.”
“No,” she said. “I only made enough for me. The pies all yoursand the salad, and the roasties. Enjoy!”
“But youve got a whole drumstick left!” I protested. “Ill share my pie.”
“Its mine,” she said firmly. “Made two for myself. Dont want pie. Eat yours.”
I chewed miserably, watching her demolish the second drumstick, the crisp skin crackling under her teeth. My pie turned to cardboard in my mouth.
“I roasted it extra crispy,” she said, licking her fingers. “Proper crunch. Divine.”
“Ill bet,” I muttered, forcing a smile as I finished the last forkful.
Next morning, Emma asked sweetly, “What shall I make for dinner, darling?”
“Roast chicken,” I said firmly. “Dreamt about the blasted thing all night. Make it just like yours. No sidesjust gravy.”
“Of course, dear.”
That evening, I picked at my chicken without enthusiasm. Because Emma was tucking into a steaming lamb stew.
“Its best piping hot,” she said gleefully. “Could eat this every day. Loved it since I was a girl.”
The week continued like thisEmma feasting on whatever took her fancy while I endured whatever shed *technically* made for me. Last night was the final straw: she was demolishing fried whitebait.
“I want some too,” I whined.
“Why didnt you say this morning?” she said, blinking. “I made you pork chops for nothing.”
“How was I to know Id fancy whitebait?”
“Well, *I* didnt know either till now.”
“Just give me a few!”
“No,” she said firmly. “What would *I* eat? Your chops? Not a chance.”
Next morning, when she asked what I wanted for dinner, I shook my head.
“No,” I said. “Youve had your fun. Enoughs enough. From now on, whatever you make for yourself, you make double. And thats that.”
And ever since, Ive never told Emma what I want for dinner.
**Lesson learned:** Marriage isnt about getting what you ask forits about surviving what youre given.
