writer's moll

Chatting with some friends over a sunny Sunday lunch brought on a discussion about the most common triggers of domestic disputes and they seem to divide by gender. We know that women complain that men won't express their feelings (they do actually, they just haven’t got our stamina for it - bored after a mere half an hour)! But apparently men are driven mad by the equally maddening and almost exclusively female habit of refusing an offer of a chocolate bar say, when you've stopped at the garage for petrol, or an ice-cream when you're on a trip somewhere, but almost before they can take a bite, we want some – “just a bite, no, no, not that much, just a bite; well I didn’t ask for one because I didn’t want a whole one, just a measly couple of bites of yours”. When guests are expected, women are at a loss to understand why, when there are newspapers strewn over the floor and the loo needs cleaning, men decide that the top priority is painting the window sill. And who’s ever heard a man say “we’re obviously lost, let’s stop and ask the way”? It infuriates them that women give up so easily, when with a bit of patience it’s easy enough to‘re-orient’ themselves via the sun/stars/map/compass. But an argument that can be started by either sex, where there's an equal amount of spleen vented, is on the subject of how to spend your money - at Christmas time especially. I’m sure there must be couples out there who have no problem agreeing spending priorities and who love discussing what present to buy for whom, shopping for it, showing it off and covering it in a frothy film of artwork, but judging by the number of times you hear the well worn phrase “all I said …” during the run up to Christmas, suggest there can’t be too many of them.

I'm reading Vernon God Little and love the colourful way Vernon's feelings are described. I thought you could only crane your neck but what about this: 'when the rubbing of her thighs has faded, I crane my nostrils for any vague comfort, a whiff of toast, a spearmint breath. But all I whiff, over the sweat and the barbeque sauce, is school - the kind of pulse bullyboys give off when they spot a quiet one, a wordsmith, in a corner. The scent of lumber being cut for a f..... cross'. Aren't you just right there with him?