up?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
She took a moment to collect her thoughts. “So we agree on all the important things that future husbands and wives should agree on?”
“What like?” I said, sitting down on a patch of grass and pulling her down after me. “Who’s going to do the cooking? Who’s going to do the washing up?”
She shuffled herself round on her bum so that she could rest her head on my lap. “Yeah, I suppose.”
“I’ll do the cooking. You do the washing up. I’m a dab hand with the microwave, as you know. But as for DIY jobs around the flat—I think we’ll get a man in.” I looked across to the playground to watch the kids again. A little girl, roughly six years old, was sauntering aimlessly, arms outstretched in front of her with a yellow plastic bucket on her head.
I looked down at Mel under the cover of my sunglasses. An expression of deepest deliberation animated her face. She was waiting for me to ask what was on her mind. I let the silence live a little longer. She sighed heavily to get my attention. I kissed her. “You’ve got something on your mind, haven’t you?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head playfully. She took off her sunglasses and lay them on the grass next to her.
“Okay, then.” I returned to playground watching. Another little girl wearing what must have been the brightest orange tights that have ever existed was racing around the edge of the playground shouting out how many laps she’d done every time she passed her dad.
Mel sighed again heavily. “Do you ever think about . . . oh . . . forget it.”
I lifted my sunglasses on top of my head and made eye contact with her briefly. “What is it that you want me to think about?”
“Come on, we’re going for a walk,” said Mel, standing up. I stood up and she put her arm through mine and led me on a walk around the playground. “Duffy, do you ever think about . . . you know . . .”
“Watching TV uninterrupted? I dream about that . . .”
“No.”
“Why I’m marrying a mad woman?”
“Don’t push it.”
“What is it that you want me to think about? C’mon, just spit it out. It can’t be that bad.”
She came to a halt, her face half hidden by the shade of an oak tree. “Children,” she said firmly.
“Children?” I repeated needlessly.
“Yes, children. Do you ever think about us having children?”
“No,” I said almost under my breath. Suddenly all the kids in the playground became sinister and creepy—they still had the same bodies, but all the boys looked like me and all the girls like Mel. Little people with big people’s heads on. It was very disturbing.
“Don’t you ever think about kids?”
I refused to look at her while we were having this conversation. I knew that if I locked eyes with her she’d suck me into yet another debate in which I’d come off worse. “I think about kids about as often as I think about how nice it would be to set fire to all my savings, scratch my furniture, wear patches of sick on my suits as a fashion statement and invite unemployed psychopathic dwarves to share my life.”
“That’s exactly the sort of thing that Charlie said,” replied Mel.
I finally looked at her and smiled. “You’ve been talking about having kids with Charlie?”
“No,” Mel said impatiently. “Vernie and Charlie have been talking about having kids for the past few months. Or rather in the case of Charlie—not talking about having kids.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Vernie told me.”
“How come I don’t know this?”
“Because all you and Charlie ever talk about is TV and sports. You never talk about anything that’s even vaguely important.”
“Now hang on,” I protested. “That’s not true. Why, over lunch we talked about . . .” I mentally flicked through the list of topics: yesterday’s football results, ten reasons why Roger Moore was a better Bond than Sean Connery (we only came up with eight) and the
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
She took a moment to collect her thoughts. “So we agree on all the important things that future husbands and wives should agree on?”
“What like?” I said, sitting down on a patch of grass and pulling her down after me. “Who’s going to do the cooking? Who’s going to do the washing up?”
She shuffled herself round on her bum so that she could rest her head on my lap. “Yeah, I suppose.”
“I’ll do the cooking. You do the washing up. I’m a dab hand with the microwave, as you know. But as for DIY jobs around the flat—I think we’ll get a man in.” I looked across to the playground to watch the kids again. A little girl, roughly six years old, was sauntering aimlessly, arms outstretched in front of her with a yellow plastic bucket on her head.
I looked down at Mel under the cover of my sunglasses. An expression of deepest deliberation animated her face. She was waiting for me to ask what was on her mind. I let the silence live a little longer. She sighed heavily to get my attention. I kissed her. “You’ve got something on your mind, haven’t you?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head playfully. She took off her sunglasses and lay them on the grass next to her.
“Okay, then.” I returned to playground watching. Another little girl wearing what must have been the brightest orange tights that have ever existed was racing around the edge of the playground shouting out how many laps she’d done every time she passed her dad.
Mel sighed again heavily. “Do you ever think about . . . oh . . . forget it.”
I lifted my sunglasses on top of my head and made eye contact with her briefly. “What is it that you want me to think about?”
“Come on, we’re going for a walk,” said Mel, standing up. I stood up and she put her arm through mine and led me on a walk around the playground. “Duffy, do you ever think about . . . you know . . .”
“Watching TV uninterrupted? I dream about that . . .”
“No.”
“Why I’m marrying a mad woman?”
“Don’t push it.”
“What is it that you want me to think about? C’mon, just spit it out. It can’t be that bad.”
She came to a halt, her face half hidden by the shade of an oak tree. “Children,” she said firmly.
“Children?” I repeated needlessly.
“Yes, children. Do you ever think about us having children?”
“No,” I said almost under my breath. Suddenly all the kids in the playground became sinister and creepy—they still had the same bodies, but all the boys looked like me and all the girls like Mel. Little people with big people’s heads on. It was very disturbing.
“Don’t you ever think about kids?”
I refused to look at her while we were having this conversation. I knew that if I locked eyes with her she’d suck me into yet another debate in which I’d come off worse. “I think about kids about as often as I think about how nice it would be to set fire to all my savings, scratch my furniture, wear patches of sick on my suits as a fashion statement and invite unemployed psychopathic dwarves to share my life.”
“That’s exactly the sort of thing that Charlie said,” replied Mel.
I finally looked at her and smiled. “You’ve been talking about having kids with Charlie?”
“No,” Mel said impatiently. “Vernie and Charlie have been talking about having kids for the past few months. Or rather in the case of Charlie—not talking about having kids.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Vernie told me.”
“How come I don’t know this?”
“Because all you and Charlie ever talk about is TV and sports. You never talk about anything that’s even vaguely important.”
“Now hang on,” I protested. “That’s not true. Why, over lunch we talked about . . .” I mentally flicked through the list of topics: yesterday’s football results, ten reasons why Roger Moore was a better Bond than Sean Connery (we only came up with eight) and the
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