Dear Deirdre
You have got yourself into a tizzy, haven’t you? It sounds to me as if your husband may be experiencing that much over-used phrase ‘a mid-life crisis’. Spending hours alone on the computer or locked away in the shed are all classic symptoms, dear. Men do need their personal space, a yearning that dates right back to the Stone Age; cave men were extremely territorial. My father was much the same over his pigeon coop, which he actually referred to as his ‘cave’ – I even saw him dragging my mother around by her hair once! These ancestral instincts are so deeply ingrained, aren't they?
I know it must be hurtful when your husband refers to you as ‘Dreary’ but perhaps you should stop looking at his social media entries; eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves! You say that his shed always smells of skunk, which I imagine is most unpleasant; skunks don’t make great pets, dear - I've taken the liberty of enclosing a wonderful pamphlet the guides have produced on handling animals, which is a joy to read. I hope, too, that this might discourage his activity of ‘whacking the one eyed weasel’; I simply can’t abide blood sports.
Try not to worry, Deirdre, this phase will soon pass and then you will both be able to reconvene your wonderful activities at the Basingstoke Tea Bag Folding Society. Won’t that be exciting?
Yours, Eunice
You have got yourself into a tizzy, haven’t you? It sounds to me as if your husband may be experiencing that much over-used phrase ‘a mid-life crisis’. Spending hours alone on the computer or locked away in the shed are all classic symptoms, dear. Men do need their personal space, a yearning that dates right back to the Stone Age; cave men were extremely territorial. My father was much the same over his pigeon coop, which he actually referred to as his ‘cave’ – I even saw him dragging my mother around by her hair once! These ancestral instincts are so deeply ingrained, aren't they?
I know it must be hurtful when your husband refers to you as ‘Dreary’ but perhaps you should stop looking at his social media entries; eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves! You say that his shed always smells of skunk, which I imagine is most unpleasant; skunks don’t make great pets, dear - I've taken the liberty of enclosing a wonderful pamphlet the guides have produced on handling animals, which is a joy to read. I hope, too, that this might discourage his activity of ‘whacking the one eyed weasel’; I simply can’t abide blood sports.
Try not to worry, Deirdre, this phase will soon pass and then you will both be able to reconvene your wonderful activities at the Basingstoke Tea Bag Folding Society. Won’t that be exciting?
Yours, Eunice
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