My husband thinks that my writing is simply avoidance behaviour. He hasn’t said it. Yet. But I know what he’s thinking. He arrived home the other day expecting his lunch, but the breakfast dishes were lined up along the draining board all ready to go into the dishwasher. The linen basket was in the middle of the kitchen floor with the ironing board set up good to go, and the vacuum cleaner was plugged in the hall all set for action.
I could hear him shouting, “Where are you Et,” as he took the stairs two at a time.
“I’m here, writing,” I called back just as he came into the bedroom.
“You’re still in bed,” he said amazed. The place is a mess.
“I’m writing,” I smiled. I was surrounded by books and biros.
“It’s half past twelve and you’re still in bed,” he repeated.
“Yes,” I said, “I was just about to clean the kitchen and iron the clothes when I got a great idea and I was afraid I would forget it.”
“Well,” he said, “It would be great if we could all work from bed. But some of us have to actually go out to work.”
“And besides,” I smiled, ignoring his comment, I couldn’t understand why he was being short with me, “I like writing in bed. I think I do my best writing in bed.”
“Of course you do Pet,” he said. “Would you like me to bring you up a cup of tea and a sandwich before I go back to work?”
“I’d love it,” I said, “that would be great.”
Now I know my husband. I’m Et when he’s happy, but I’m Pet when he’s not.
He arrived back a while later with tea and sandwiches on a tray.
“Don’t disturb yourself,” he smiled. “Enjoy.”
I looked at him puzzled. His humour had changed. Then it hit me.
“You’re afraid I’ll write about you aren’t you?” I said.