I popped into the salon this morning and asked Tracy to touch-up my highlights. Well there aren't many pleasures left at my age ! As usual, she tactfully declined, and I had to settle for the regular nose, ear and brows trim. Outside, it was still cold, but nothing like the glacial temperature inside our house, where The Lady of The House has declared one of her door-slamming/ crockery rattling fests. Married men will be familiar with the Heller-esque paradox- "Whats up, pet? / If you don't know I'm not going to tell you." Hmmm - looks like they've just upped the number of missions again !
Years of experience have shown me that intelligence is the key to these situations, so I consulted Wikileaks (AKA Ruth, the cleaning lady). Apparently the critical word here is "Anniversary". During lachrymose conversations while the pair of them were "tidying" my (now redundant) drinks cupboard, expressions such as "thirty five feckin years of this" were regrettably deployed.
So that's what all the fuss is about. Not a problem. Now that the roads are a bit better, I'll just pop down to the filling station and pick up a bunch of these very good value carnations. Sorted.
Or perhaps I may have to resort to "Our song"