My wife bought herself a jumper. A Christmas jumper. Not that I have any objection to her buying a jumper, don’t get me wrong, she’s earned her own money and she’s entitled to spend it how she likes. But, usually, I approve of her taste in clothes.
She ordered it online. She hadn’t told me what she’d ordered and, when the parcel arrived, she ran upstairs clutching it to her bosom, eager to try on the contents. A few minutes later, she pranced into the kitchen where I was washing up the breakfast things and stood there expectantly, a bright smile hovering around her lips.
“What do you think?”
“It’s naff, twee, over the top…”
That’s what I thought.
What I said was, “It’s a lovely colour and it fits all right.” Both statements were true. It was a vivid green, in a smooth knit and a good length to cover her bottom. It was what was embroidered on it that was the problem: a big smiley reindeer head, complete with antlers and (of course) a large shiny red nose. It reminded me of a zipped cardi that my gran had lovingly hand-knitted for my sister half a century ago – and it wasn’t appreciated even then.
Worse was to come. As she gave me a twirl so I could admire it from all angles, I could see on the back the reindeer’s rear end complete with waggly tail.
“What about the design? Isn’t it just great?”
It was clear that some comment on the design was required. I didn’t want to upset her, especially so near Christmas when I was hoping for a new chess book, so I cast around desperately for something tactful to say.
“You don’t think it’s a bit, er… a little, er…”
“A bit what?”
“A bit…well, old-fashioned.” It was the best I could come up with if I wanted a joyous Christmas.
“Old-fashioned? Oh no, they’re all the rage this year; everyone who’s anyone has a reindeer sweater. And now I’ve got one, too! I may as well keep it on. Cut the label out for me, would you?”
As I snipped carefully, the idea flashed through my mind that I could accidentally snip the material, but I banished it instantly. She was obviously thrilled with her purchase and I didn’t want to spoil it for her. And I’d only have to look at it for a few days over the Christmas period, after all.
That was three weeks ago. Since then she’s worn the jumper every day. On Christmas Eve, to attend midnight mass, she fished out the brown suede trousers she bought half-price in a sale last winter and added the Cuban-heeled boots that had been languishing in the back of the wardrobe for about three years. Fortunately, it was chilly in church so she kept her jacket on throughout the service.
She obviously liked the look because the same outfit appeared on Christmas Day. It was a surreal experience to sit across the dining table from a reindeer dishing out the sprouts and roast potatoes. But I managed to avoid catching its eye. And I did get my chess book. In any event, presumably she wouldn’t be wearing the jumper after Twelfth Night. I casually mentioned this when she was in a relaxed mood one evening.
“Oh, I can’t wear it just for a couple of weeks! No, it’s warm and cosy and I’ll enjoy it all winter.”
Perhaps I’ll get so used to seeing it, I thought, that, eventually, I won’t really notice it.
The other night it was time for her monthly manicure and pedicure. She seemed to be making heavy weather of her toe nails.
“Are the scissors going blunt? Perhaps you should invest in a new pair. Or do you want to try my clippers?”
“No, I can manage, thanks,” as she wrestled with a particularly tough big toe nail.
While she’d got her leg up on the side of the bed, I couldn’t help noticing that said leg was, well, in need of shaving, not to put too fine a point on it. I suggested this to her, diffidently.
“I only waxed them last week!” she replied tartly, tossing her head.
I said no more.
*
Yesterday morning, she woke with what seemed to be the start of a cold. Her voice was quite hoarse and her nose red and swollen.
“Can I get you something? I’ll make you a mug of honey and lemon, shall I? You always find that soothing.”
“Don’t fuss! I feel perfectly all right.”
“Only trying to help,” I said, rather hurt.
“I know, I’m sorry, didn’t mean to snap.” And she nuzzled my neck apologetically.
The cold didn’t amount to anything and she had a good night’s sleep without too much snoring. I didn’t, though – I tossed and turned to escape unpleasantly vivid dreams and I had to get up twice to go to the bathroom. As a result of all this night-time activity, I overslept and when I opened my eyes, she was already up and dressed in her usual outfit and about to go and have breakfast. I listened to her clip-clopping down the polished open-plan stairs and then hauled myself out of bed and shrugged on my dressing-gown.
She was sitting at the table with a bowl of oats in front of her. She hadn’t bothered pouring milk on them. I bent to kiss the top of her head. There was a little lump on her scalp. concerned, I felt it gently – and then noticed a similar one on the other side, just behind and above her ear. Even as I touched them they seemed to spurt. I snatched my hand away in horror.
“Ruby? These feel like – horns. Ruby!!?”
My wife turned round and whickered affectionately at me. Under the fluorescent light, her crimson nose glowed.
She ordered it online. She hadn’t told me what she’d ordered and, when the parcel arrived, she ran upstairs clutching it to her bosom, eager to try on the contents. A few minutes later, she pranced into the kitchen where I was washing up the breakfast things and stood there expectantly, a bright smile hovering around her lips.
“What do you think?”
“It’s naff, twee, over the top…”
That’s what I thought.
What I said was, “It’s a lovely colour and it fits all right.” Both statements were true. It was a vivid green, in a smooth knit and a good length to cover her bottom. It was what was embroidered on it that was the problem: a big smiley reindeer head, complete with antlers and (of course) a large shiny red nose. It reminded me of a zipped cardi that my gran had lovingly hand-knitted for my sister half a century ago – and it wasn’t appreciated even then.
Worse was to come. As she gave me a twirl so I could admire it from all angles, I could see on the back the reindeer’s rear end complete with waggly tail.
“What about the design? Isn’t it just great?”
It was clear that some comment on the design was required. I didn’t want to upset her, especially so near Christmas when I was hoping for a new chess book, so I cast around desperately for something tactful to say.
“You don’t think it’s a bit, er… a little, er…”
“A bit what?”
“A bit…well, old-fashioned.” It was the best I could come up with if I wanted a joyous Christmas.
“Old-fashioned? Oh no, they’re all the rage this year; everyone who’s anyone has a reindeer sweater. And now I’ve got one, too! I may as well keep it on. Cut the label out for me, would you?”
As I snipped carefully, the idea flashed through my mind that I could accidentally snip the material, but I banished it instantly. She was obviously thrilled with her purchase and I didn’t want to spoil it for her. And I’d only have to look at it for a few days over the Christmas period, after all.
That was three weeks ago. Since then she’s worn the jumper every day. On Christmas Eve, to attend midnight mass, she fished out the brown suede trousers she bought half-price in a sale last winter and added the Cuban-heeled boots that had been languishing in the back of the wardrobe for about three years. Fortunately, it was chilly in church so she kept her jacket on throughout the service.
She obviously liked the look because the same outfit appeared on Christmas Day. It was a surreal experience to sit across the dining table from a reindeer dishing out the sprouts and roast potatoes. But I managed to avoid catching its eye. And I did get my chess book. In any event, presumably she wouldn’t be wearing the jumper after Twelfth Night. I casually mentioned this when she was in a relaxed mood one evening.
“Oh, I can’t wear it just for a couple of weeks! No, it’s warm and cosy and I’ll enjoy it all winter.”
Perhaps I’ll get so used to seeing it, I thought, that, eventually, I won’t really notice it.
The other night it was time for her monthly manicure and pedicure. She seemed to be making heavy weather of her toe nails.
“Are the scissors going blunt? Perhaps you should invest in a new pair. Or do you want to try my clippers?”
“No, I can manage, thanks,” as she wrestled with a particularly tough big toe nail.
While she’d got her leg up on the side of the bed, I couldn’t help noticing that said leg was, well, in need of shaving, not to put too fine a point on it. I suggested this to her, diffidently.
“I only waxed them last week!” she replied tartly, tossing her head.
I said no more.
*
Yesterday morning, she woke with what seemed to be the start of a cold. Her voice was quite hoarse and her nose red and swollen.
“Can I get you something? I’ll make you a mug of honey and lemon, shall I? You always find that soothing.”
“Don’t fuss! I feel perfectly all right.”
“Only trying to help,” I said, rather hurt.
“I know, I’m sorry, didn’t mean to snap.” And she nuzzled my neck apologetically.
The cold didn’t amount to anything and she had a good night’s sleep without too much snoring. I didn’t, though – I tossed and turned to escape unpleasantly vivid dreams and I had to get up twice to go to the bathroom. As a result of all this night-time activity, I overslept and when I opened my eyes, she was already up and dressed in her usual outfit and about to go and have breakfast. I listened to her clip-clopping down the polished open-plan stairs and then hauled myself out of bed and shrugged on my dressing-gown.
She was sitting at the table with a bowl of oats in front of her. She hadn’t bothered pouring milk on them. I bent to kiss the top of her head. There was a little lump on her scalp. concerned, I felt it gently – and then noticed a similar one on the other side, just behind and above her ear. Even as I touched them they seemed to spurt. I snatched my hand away in horror.
“Ruby? These feel like – horns. Ruby!!?”
My wife turned round and whickered affectionately at me. Under the fluorescent light, her crimson nose glowed.