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

If you've clicked on the 'Why I nearly stopped updating' link above, you'll know who Hannah is. But, of course, you won't have clicked on it because you felt it was too much of an effort, you Child Of The Internet, you. So, let me tell you Hannah is someone with whom I recently started to work – remotely, I've met her in person once, for about ninety minutes. You now have all the information you need. Phone me, I'll come round and scroll for you too, OK?

Margret and I are going up a mountain, side by side, on a drag lift in Germany. The white noise of the snow under our skis is the only sound until Margret begins to speak.

Margret – 'This woman – 'Hannah', is it? – what's she like?'

Mil – 'She seems OK.'

Margret – 'How old is she.'

Mil – 'About thirty, I think.'

Margret – 'What colour is her hair?'

Mil – 'Black.'

Margret – 'Does she smoke?'

Mil – 'Yes.'

Margret – 'YOU WANT TO SLEEP WITH HER, DON'T YOU?'

Perfectly put into practice there, you can see, Sherlock Holmes's rule that, 'Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable must be the truth.'

42

'I'm nearly there.' Yeah. Right.

43

I came home from work on Friday and, as I wearily opened the door into the house, Second Born, Peter [2], heard me entering and poked his head out of the living room.

'Hello, Papa – I've missed you,' he shouts. From within the living room Margret's voice calls out to him 'No you haven't, Peter.'

You're all up for testifying for me in court, right?

44

OK, you tell me whether I'm wrong to be starting to get seriously worried about this. OK? You tell me. I shuffled out of bed into the bathroom this morning to have a shower. I took my clothes off, innocently pulled back the shower curtain and this is what I saw. (Fortunately, the digital camera – 'For me? I see – for me, is it?' – I bought for Margret this Christmas was just in the other room to provide photographic proof. Because I know you all think I make this stuff up. Damn you.) Now, tell me, is Margret placing it there the act of a rational human being?

You know what I think? I think she's having an affair with it. That's exactly the shudder of realisation I felt as I pulled back the shower curtain. I mean, it's not like the clues weren't there, is it? I can perfectly picture myself unexpectedly coming home early from work one day, walking into the bedroom and, with a cold slap of shock, discovering them in bed together – underwear and foliage flung carelessly across the floor by their impatient passion. 'You! Of course – what a fool I've been!'

45

I know from the emails I get that a fair number of you are holed up in Wyoming basements surrounded by automatic weapons, livestock and racks of cassettes filled with analysis of the Book of Revelations you've recorded off talk radio. If you have a moment, go and look in your freezer. That's how Margret stocks our freezer too. She doesn't buy one of anything. She waits until she finds it, 'Buy Two – Get One Free,' and then she buys nine. Moreover, she can't manage to suppress an indulgent smile – as though I'm a father telling my teenage daughter that her skirt might give boys all the wrong signals – when I suggest that checking to see how full the freezer is before she starts buying extra stuff for it might be a good idea. Beyond the simply obvious – they'll have terraformed Mars before our family runs out of oven chips, for example – there is another consequence of this. The sheer volume of food that needs to be crammed into the freezer means it's only possible at all because Margret employs two ruses.

The first is brute force. Basically, she just hammers things into the drawers with the heel of her shoe. Which works, but at the expense of horrifically deforming whatever she's storing. We're all used to this now, naturally. Jonathan pretty much expects his turkey dinosaurs to be a collection of misshapen body parts: they're turkey dinosaurs, as modelled on the scenes of carnage the day after the comet hit Earth. It really only becomes an issue when he has friends round, asks them if they'd like an Cornetto ice cream and is then bemused by their expression of stark horror when he returns holding something that looks like it's been trampled by horses.

The second point is that she only has any chance whatsoever of jamming all the things in if she throws away the cardboard boxes in which everything's packed. The boxes which, of course, bear the cooking instructions. Now, I know you're not going to believe this, but I'm just the tiniest bit anal. No, no, really – it's true. Anyway, one of the symptoms of this – very slight – finickiness on my part is that if the instructions say, 'Pre-heat the oven. Cook at Gas Mark 7 for 23 minutes. Turn once at 13 minutes,' then that – precisely that – is what I do. And I become rather agitated if anything prevents this. (A regular argument we have springs from my setting the oven timer for, say, 7 minutes then going into the living room and pacing backwards and forwards, additionally checking my watch, while I wait. At about 9 minutes, and still not having heard the beeper go off, my crackling nerves will take me into the kitchen, where I'll find Margret has reset the timer to 45 minutes because she's using it to time some glue drying or something. A discussion will follow.) Not having any cooking instructions leaves me in a fearful swirl of uncertainty. Even worse is when Margret decides the cooking instructions are vital, so she'll cut them out, and throw them into the freezer as she's loading it. I'll find them some years later. There's no clue as to what they belong to, of course. I'm merely left there with my shaking hands holding a slip of cardboard that has instructions ending with – in bold – 'Leave to stand for two minutes before serving,' and not the smallest idea what it's referring to. I'd be happier, quite frankly, if it read, 'There is a bomb somewhere in your house.'

So anyway, I came downstairs at lunchtime on Saturday and saw that the oven was on. Margret, in a worrying development, was cooking something.

'What's in there?' I ask, as off-handedly as the situation allows.

'Your pizza.'

I make a lunge for the oven door. Margret becomes bellicose.

'I can cook a frozen pizza, you know?'

'No, it's not that,' I bluff, 'I just want to add some extra ham. They never use enough ham.'

Margret taking on a frozen pizza is a chilling enough prospect under any circumstances, but when you