William Walker’s First Year of Marriage: A Horror Story. Matt Rudd
burnt beyond recognition, he doesn’t suffer anaphylactic shock from the couscous and the afternoon is simply splendid.
Although I’m left exchanging pleasantries with the Moroccan girlfriend while Alex calls Isabel babes a lot, says all the right things about how wonderful the dress/flowers/father’s speech was, and touches her on the arm repeatedly.
THREE INTERESTING THINGS I LEARNT ABOUT MOROCCO WHILE SOMEONE HIT ON MY WIFE
1 The average temperature in the desert in July is 38°C, which is hot enough to fry an egg in. Not that that’s a priority.
2 Most souks close for lunch and on Fridays.
3 In the city of Oudja, a large number of deaf men use sign language. It is hard to determine how many women are capable of sign language because they do not speak it in the streets.
The only other way to kill time is to go to the toilet a lot. Alex’s flat, sorry, maisonette, sorry split-level garden apartment, is so minimalist that you can’t even find the doors without feeling your way around like a blind person. So it wasn’t my fault that on the nth pretend toilet stop, I accidentally found myself in his office/spare room/mirrored gym absent-mindedly wondering how to sabotage the chest-press.
Or that I accidentally spotted a torn photograph of me poking out from under a sheet in the corner.
Or that I accidentally lifted the sheet to discover bundles of photos from the wedding, all chopped up.
‘Can I help you?’ Alex, all smiles.
‘No, just looking for the loo,’ I replied, dropping the sheet. ‘Didn’t know you had copies of the wedding photos.’
‘They’re my own. They’re not ready for you to look at yet. The loo is where it’s been all afternoon.’
Isabel isn’t talking to me on the way home, despite my immense efforts at being nice all day, and despite me revealing the shock news that her ‘best friend’ has a chopped-up pile of photos from our wedding in his spare room.
Apparently, I was moody and I am ridiculous to even suggest that Alex might have spent the last few weeks chopping up the wedding photos of the girl he loves and the man he despises.
So unfair.
Monday 6 June
Two blocks down from our flat, a new one of those yellow incident boards had been put up. We get a lot of them round our way, but this one was different.
Incident. Saturday 4 June. A man and his dog were stabbed. Did you see anything? If so, please call.
I can’t believe they stabbed the dog. What had the dog done?
Tuesday 7 June
‘Let’s just get an agent or two around to value the place. We don’t have to move or anything but it would be nice to know what sort of move we could make if we decided we wanted to…move, that is.’
‘OKAY, I suppose it would be nice to have a little garden. And if we don’t go too far, I quite like the idea of commuting.’
‘Excellent, darling…Hello, I’d like to arrange an evaluation…Tomorrow? That’s rather sudden…No, no, that would be lovely.’
Good night’s sleep ruined by a horrible nightmare. I was having a drink outside a pub with my childhood pet dog Fluffy, miraculously reincarnated twice as large and twice as fluffy, with the ability to drink beer. Across the road, a woman screams as a terrifying bloke with a baseball cap and face tattoos grapples with her handbag. Fluffy barks, the terrifying bloke stops mugging the woman and turns to confront us. He’s laughing maniacally and being all sarcastic about how fluffy Fluffy is.
As he advances, a huge knife glinting in his hand, I reach for my pocket penknife. For what seems like ages, I can’t get it open. When I do, it’s only the nail file. He’s getting closer and closer as I find the corkscrew, then the letter-opener, then the tiny little nail scissors.
As the terrifying bloke raises his knife, which is now a very efficient giant pink razor, above his head, I am cornered with nothing but the hole punch. Like a fluffy blur, Fluffy is there, flying through the air like Lassie. Except Lassie wouldn’t have been razored clean in two. The last thing I see is a look of total astonishment on Fluffy’s fluffy little face. Then I wake up clutching one end of a pillow.
Thursday 9 June
Three estate agents come round to do flat valuation. Needed a shower afterwards. However much I scrubbed, I still felt dirty.
‘Mr Walker. Hi, Arthur Arthurs from Arthurs’ Arseholes.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Arthur Arthurs from Arthurs & Sons. For the valuation. Pleasure. May I? Lovely, lovely hallway. Mmm, yes, oh, lovely carpets. Neutral. Perfect.’
‘This is the only bedroom.’
‘Oh gorgeous, the space, the light, the scope, the movement.’ He’s a stamp collector who’s discovered a penny black, an art collector who’s tripped over a Rembrandt in the attic, the first archaeologist at Sutton bloody Hoo.
‘Look at this kitchen, will you? Just look at it. Look at this well-appointed, well-equipped, well-planned little minx of a kitchen.’
It’s a tiny kitchen in a tiny flat on the wrong side of Finsbury Park that he may have to sell at the height of a property-market crash but he’s excited.
‘Oh yes, the walls. Oh yes, the marble surfaces. Oh yes, the hood, the hood, the hood. Mmmm, lovely. The toilet! Aarrrrhhhh. Ooooooh. Bidet. Smooth. Simple. Soft. You cheeky bidet. You halogen lighting. You naughty, naughty power shower.’
He was the least repellent of the three. And suggested the highest selling price.
Saturday 11 June
This was always going to be a difficult day: both sets of parents coming up for an afternoon stroll, then wedding photos, then dinner. Seemed so simple—we have nice, non-problematic, hang-up-free parents. No messy divorces, no excessive corporal punishment, no strange method-parenting guaranteed to instil some deeply hidden psychological bomb set to go off any time in early adulthood. But then you have to consider the conflicting requirements: it’s like doing the catering at an allergy-sufferers’ convention.
My mum: South African interior designer, impatient; loves short walks, dogs, home improvements; hates cats, overcooked vegetables, old art-house movies from Japan.
Her mum: Polish doctor, impatient; likes cats, home improvements, cleanliness; hates dogs, undercooked vegetables and walking anywhere that isn’t strictly necessary. ‘I escaped through the Iron Curtain, my darlinks, with only forty zloty, some silver spoons and my university certificate hidden in my tights. I walked through Europe to be here. I have done enough walking.’
My dad: English; traditional; slowing down a bit. Likes not saying very much, except when he tells a story, which can take hours. Leaves rest of liking and hating of cats, dogs, vegetables and home improvements to Mum.
Her dad: ditto, but more so; doesn’t suffer fools, gladly or otherwise. In fact doesn’t really suffer anyone or anything. Especially short walks. Short walks are stuff and nonsense. In his day, he walked 100 miles just to buy the milk.
Even before the lunch began, I knew it would be difficult. Isabel in big mood because her razor is blunt and her legs, consequently, look like streaky bacon. I obviously know nothing, which only makes her more grumpy. Then, the family arrives.
The walk
‘I will stay here. I don’t want to go for a walk,’ says her mum.
‘A