Sex and Lies…

Husband knew I was stressed, just off a train from Manchester last night, where some fucked up Glaswegian drunk vomited in every toilet the length of the train, where smelly men pissed on their seats and despite being in first class, I still could smell all of that stuff combined. Husband decides to tell me all the emails I forgot to do concerning receipts and boring stuff, he makes lists of what I have forgot when in actual fact he could just do those tasks himself….
Anyway I woke up angry this morning as I was going back to my old pub that I used to own 12 years ago, the pub that my autobiography speaks about, the place where my life was formed and sometimes ruined, the place of my nightmares, I was going back to chat to a journalist from News of The World.
I suggested the place to be honest as I felt it would give the piece an in depth flavour. But I was stressed about it for some strange reason; I very rarely go back there, to the East End of Glasgow, except in my ever recurring nightmares, so I was slightly jagged this morning.
I washed the mad bushwhack of a head and tried to fix it looking nice as I knew there were photo’s to be done. I went into the bedroom and asked husband what he thought of my hair, he NEVER even looked and in my fragile state I shouted at him for not caring, not being there for me, not supporting me, not loving me enough, not taking on board how hard my life can get and by 11am I had decided on divorce.
By this time he was sitting up in bed startled, his hair was sticking up, his eyes were bleary and suddenly somewhere between BBC Radio 4’s ‘Woman’s Hour’ and the 11 o’clock news- his life was being dragged along a new path and before lunch time he was staring a life that would involve him being invariably single.
“Was it about the hair?” he mumbled trying to come to terms with a divorce as he struggled into his pants. I watched his half sleepy but terrified face trying to shake off the sleep mask and form some kind of semblance of conversation that would convince me he loved me and my hair was nice.
By this time, my hair looked ok and I had calmed down somewhat and started to get annoyed as he tried to hug me as I put on my lipstick “Was it about your hair? Is that why you want a divorce?” he continued.
“No? Are you now saying my hair is bad?” I barked.
His face quickly displayed three hundred mixed frightened emotions, it was like watching a scary movie slowly download on a crap computer, as his brain tried to work out his next move in this deathly mine field that is my psyche.
I knew I was committing emotional warfare on a badly prepared man, but fuck it; he ignored me in my hour of need so I had turned into the woman that even Koffi Anan would find it hard to negotiate with.
I left the house and did the interview, Anver was great, and she is interesting and sparky! Just my kind of woman!
So I am now home and husband is in the bedroom possibly sitting in a corner chewing his own hair, I may have to go and apologise….
Ok there was no sex in this blog that was the lie in the title.