Actually I was going to do it until I discovered just how much washing up there was, and called him in to at least get the kids plates sorted.
My reactions to his methods are pretty traditional now and I should be prepared for them (for that matter so should he) but I watched in extreme aggravation as he:
- did the toast too early
- left it sitting in the toaster until he was ready for it and it was stone cold and leathery
- slapped margarine on top in a sort of topographical design in the middle - ridges and dips and none anywhere near the corners
What worried me was my internal reaction. The guy has seemingly never been taught that the only good slice of toast is hot when its buttered and still hot when its served. I imagine he simply never got such small but essential tokens of respect or love proffered to him as a kid - that he was brought up on the tepid offerings of 'thereabouts' and 'good enough'.
Who did I quietly blame for that? His bloody mother!
So there's a man in my kitchen who, after 12 years of marriage steadfastly refuses to even pretend to compromise on his cordon bleugh, and I'm there still privately blaming his mother.
Do we women shoot ourselves in the foot, or what?