Dear Diary,
I sent Michael back to his mums flat today.
Who the hell are we living with? Michael shouted, his voice echoing off the cracked tiles. And you know what really gets my goat here? That you seem happy with everything!
Whats wrong, love? I asked calmly.
Its that I forgot yesterday our toilet is not where it should be in a proper house its smack in the middle of the bathroom. I walked into the cistern with my knee and now Ive got a bruise the size of your little makeup bag!
Which makeup bag, darling? I stretched the words, watching his left eye twitch. The tiny one for lipstick, or the big one where you keep my nailpolish tools that I havent used for two months because all our money disappears on your male whims?
He muttered something and the argument died there.
How on earth did we end up like this? Just four months ago I was the happiest bride-to-be in the world. I had Michael handsome, clever, dependable (or so I thought) and a flat of my own. It was a brandnew build in a London block that needed a bit of work. Id bought it with the proceeds from my grandmothers old twobedroom council house in the city centre.
What could possibly have gone wrong? It turned out everything. All of it.
It began when my prince on a white steed quickly turned into a professional whiner perched on the sofa.
Listen, love, Michael said, pulling a grimace that distorted his otherwise handsome face. Reasonable folk finish the renovation first, then move in. Not the other way round, living in a concrete shell like some
Like some who? I pressed, feeling righteous anger rise. Like those who cant afford a £1,500 a month flat while theyre still fixing it up? Or likewhat exactly are you getting at?
He grew redcheeked. In the past fortnight hed been staying over at his mothers spacious threebedroom terraced house, left to her after her husband passed away unexpectedly.
Three months earlier hed quit his job and was now actively looking for work. In practice that meant scrolling through job adverts and popping into a weekly interview, while most of his time was spent glued to his computer playing video games.
His mum kept sending him pocket money, completely unaware that her precious little lad was loafing about. She heard the same excuses he gave me: the economy was in a slump, good jobs were hard to find, and he wasnt fit for manual work, and so on. In short, hed found a cosy spot without any effort.
When I asked, Hows it at mums? Comfortable? Michael puffed up.
Why does my mum matter? he snapped, and I knew my favourite tirade was about to start. She justshe worries about me! You should have seen her get upset yesterday when I told her weve been washing ourselves in a basin for two weeks because we still cant get the shower fitted!
We cant get it fitted? I exclaimed. We? Or that selfappointed handyman who swore he could do all the work with his own two hands? Someone who claims to know how to wield a drill?
It became clear that the whole renovation rested on my shoulders. I was the one wielding the drill, not him. Michaels contribution was to pop to the shop for some groceries; cooking was out of the question.
He tried to answer, but I cut him off:
Tell me, love, who decided to put the toilet in the middle of the bathroom? Who was too lazy to read the plumbing plan?
At that moment Milo, my ginger cat, sauntered across the windowsilltable and knocked over a decorative mug Id bought as a housewarming gift. It shattered into tiny shards, and I suddenly felt it was a sign from above.
Right then, Michael, I said, my voice steady, I think you really shouldnt be living in these dreadful conditions. Go back to your mums, right now.
Youre kicking me out? Michael raised an eyebrow.
Im freeing you from this misery.
I opened the brandnew front door, grateful that wed at least managed to replace the old one that had hung on a promise.
Your mum will sort you a proper dinner, iron your shirts, wash your socks and even have the toilet where it belongs! Ill manage here on my own.
Michael tried to fake a sympathetic smile, but it came out looking more like a grimace after a sour lemon.
Enough with the drama, Ethel, he muttered. Dont think you can manage without me!
How did you arrive at that conclusion? I laughed. Ive been handling this renovation solo for two months while youve been hopping over to mums to whine about life. Yesterday I wired the washing machine myself after watching three YouTube tutorials. And you couldnt even follow the instructions.
Ha Michael chuckled. She hooked up the washer what a feat! Even a child could do that.
If a child can do it, why cant you? I shot back.
I didnt I
Just didnt want to, right? I pressed. Tell me, Michael, what do you actually want to do? Sit on the sofa and critique? Tell your mum Im a terrible partner because I force you to live in inhuman conditions?
He opened his mouth, but I cut him again. If you complain to mum again that Im starving you, Ill spill the beans about your job hunt: the endless gaming sessions, the endless excuses, the lack of any real responsibilities.
Now the threats are coming out, he sighed. Fine, Ill go to mums. We can talk later when youve cooled off.
No talk, I replied. Ive already said everything. Pack your things, say goodbye to mum, and shell be thrilled.
Realising I wasnt joking, Michael smirked and started gathering his few belongingsthere wasnt much to take, so he finished quickly.
Good thing I never married you, he said, perhaps thinking it would sting. Youd have driven me mad, and wed have ended up divorcing.
Exactly! I retorted. Thats it thenoff you go. Safe travels. Milo and I will manage.
He laughed. Milo! Living with a catthats a life only a person like you could handle. Soon youll have a whole menagerieforty cats, perhaps!
When he left, Milo padded over, rubbing against my legs. I scooped him up and pressed a kiss to his fluffy crown.
Well, little chap, looks like youre the main man in this house now. Well make it work, wont we?
He blinked both eyes at me, as if to say yes.
Ethel.
