On the list of things that exasperate my wife the most there is a surprising entry making a play for top spot.
Look, it’s a close thing but it’s not me getting upset when the Springboks lose, or forgetting to pack the dishwasher.
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It’s also not for wearing a faded t-shirt or jeans that are fraying at the bottom. (Despite my protestations that they are sublimely comfortable and it takes time for them to reach this level of comfort).
It’s also not me looking at my phone while she’s trying to tell me something.
No, it seems I can get away with quite a lot if I can just remember to bring home my plastic lunch box container.
This doesn’t make her angry. That would be a preferable option.
It’s probably closer to disappointment. A deep sigh followed by more deep disappointment.
There’s no arguing or defending one’s self out of this.
It hasn’t helped matters that some of those lunch boxes are never coming back.
They’ve either been given away, borrowed (for good), or just left the building without explaining themselves.
I don’t know why it’s so difficult to remember to take them home.
However now that there are none left my beloved, patient and long suffering wife has had to use my 6 year old son’s lunch box.
So I have officially been read the riot act. “It’s easy, no lunch box, no lunch! Of course you could always make your own!”
Safe to say, on the days I do get lunch (it’s not every day, although I will not even attempt to deny I’m a little spoilt) the boy’s lunch box has made its way home.
I must say I have felt somewhat victorious.
I’ve carried the lunch box into the kitchen like a trophy held high.
My wife has acted less than impressed but there has been a give away twinkle in her eye and a slight curve at the side of her mouth, enough to make me believe grace had been extended and I have, for the most part, forgiven my lunch box forgetting sins.
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