Things my girlfriend and I have argued about (online version)

to try to work out what she's referring to. If I notice, say, that in her hand is a pile of 8x10 glossies of Alyson Hannigan – including that one of her in the suspenders and basque, which only seems to be available in black and white, damn it – I might start up with my defence. I might decide to say how they were really cheap – nothing at all, in fact, because, um, Another World, Wolverhampton, has just been taken over by an entirely gay male staff and they paid me (I was coincidentally passing) to remove all photos of Alyson Hannigan from the premises because the chest-constrictingly powerful female allure pouring out of the things was confusing their sexuality; evoking in them feelings they felt to be foreign and distressing. But it'll probably turn out that she was annoyed simply with their being scattered all over the floor of the attic – like, you know, someone had been rolling around naked in them or something – and hadn't even noticed what they were specifically. So, then I'd still have the initial charge of squalor to contend with but would now have unwittingly added any number of others. She could even march into Another World and shout at the assistants behind the desk, 'I'm not bothered that you're all gay – but stop giving photographs to my boyfriend, OK? He's easily led.' Which is the kind of thing I try to avoid.

So, as I say, it's essential that I don't break and start volunteering explanations. Margret will push me as hard as she can in that direction, though, simply as a fishing exercise. We'll exchange words designed to say nothing – engage in a kind of obstructive bidding war, in which the crucial thing is to ensure that every bid is as valueless as the preceding one.

Margret: 'Well?'

Mil: 'What?'

Margret: 'Pffff… the kitchen.' [Easy to get drawn into something like that, but it's a fatal mistake. How many things have I done in the kitchen – some of which Margret MUST NEVER SUSPECT – could that refer to? It could be anything at all. Perhaps the kitchen is on fire because I've left something under the grill – if Margret found the kitchen on fire because I'd left something under the grill then I'm prepared to bet my legs that her reaction would not be to put the fire out or to call the emergency services, but rather to march into the room where I was and say, 'Well?' I can't blink now. If Margret says, 'the kitchen,' then there's only one thing to reply.]

Mil: 'The kitchen?'

Margret: 'YES.'

Mil: 'What?' [I might add a look of utter, guileless befuddlement here – you know, kind of: 'Hey, I want to help… I just don't know how to.' – if I think that doing so may infuriate her enough that she becomes careless and starts making mistakes. I have to make this decision on an individual basis each time, though. Feel if the moment is right, based on instinct and experience – it's an art, not a science.]

Margret: 'You know what.' [Tsk – she's flailing now. Endgame, she's in a corner with only a rook for protection and she thinks I'm going to be distracted by an exchange of queens? Amateur stuff.]

Mil: 'No, I don't. I have no idea what you're talking about.' [I've won.]

Margret: 'I'm talking about the inside of the microwave. [No, hold on. I've lost.]

Mil: 'What about it?' [Perhaps she might be referring to something other than the fact that, I now remember, a sausage exploded all over the inside of it when I was cooking it earlier in the day. You never know.]

Margret: 'Why didn't you clean it?'

Mil: 'I did.' [I'm aware that for this reply to succeed, even in a tactical sense, it needs the addition of a careering petrol tanker crashing through the front of the house, rupturing instantly and causing a fiery, shattering explosion which kills both of us before another word can be uttered. (I glance quickly out towards the road, hopefully – damn.) It's only left my mouth as a panicky substitute, you see. My reflex was to reply – with great self-recrimination – how I'd intended to clean the microwave, I really had, but I'd become caught up in the work I was doing and – regrettably – forgotten all about it. I'd wave a weary hand at the vast pile of editing that's slumping like the weight of a dead man on the computer screen in front of me. Except that, as my lips were about to start down this road, I happened to notice that the computer screen in front of me was actually displaying this: [5] and a string of emails to my mate Mark, all of which had the subject line 'Waaaaaaaahhhhhh!']

I hold my head up for a couple more seconds, but then collapse and slope off to get the Mr Muscle. And she'll watch me clean it now, too. Which means it will never end – I won't get away with just cleaning up this specific thing; it'll be an unceasing progression. Like when I'm spotted clearing away a little splash of milk in the fridge, and get badgered into wiping the whole shelf. Then the entire fridge. And so on until, the next thing I know, it's two days later and I'm repainting the spare bedroom.

And it all begins for me with 'Oh – Miiiiiiil…'

Brrrrrrrr.

THE END

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