Handbags at Dawn.

   I'm more of a handbag girl; my guilty pleasure is bags. I don't even have a clue how many I own.
- Poppy Delevingne

I spend my life in financial dire straits, and His Nibs spends his in relative security.  This is because we have very different attitudes to payday.  My attitude is

“Payday, great, what can I buy with all this money?”, before I’ve even contemplated paying the mortgage or whether the car tax is due. 

His attitude is

“Oh, payday, well I’ll just pay my half of the mortgage and leave the rest where it is, to keep me alive for the rest of the month.”

These differing attitudes have led to many difficult conversations in our house.  Conversations where I accuse His Nibs of being a skinflint, and he informs me that I am hopeless with money, and that he's fed up of my monthly salary lasting a week.  Because then he has to bail me out. 

Last week, in a fit of pious righteousness, I went insane and informed His Nibs that this month I’m going to control myself.  I’m not going to buy anything except groceries.  I don’t need anything, I informed him wildly.  I have everything my heart desires. 

I am such a complete fecking eejit.

We got paid on Friday.  I felt the need to shop so keenly that I voluntarily went to the supermarket and bought the groceries.  Things were very bad.

On Saturday, we decided we’d go to Kilkenny.  I brought a very small handbag with me.   It quickly became clear that the bag was going to drive me bonkers all day.  For one thing, my purse doesn’t fit in it, so any cash was just scattered around the bottom of the bag, unfettered.  Also, the bag was so small it had no weight in it and kept falling off my shoulder, which I found annoying beyond measure.

As we strolled down a sun dappled street, I suddenly galloped off, into a department store.  I could hear His Nibs shouting, asking where I was going.  I yelled back that I’d only be a minute, to relax and wait for me.

His Nibs does not understand my relationship with handbags.  I love them.  I can find any excuse to justify the purchase of a new one.  The excuse is usually that the old one has too much rubbish in it, and is annoying me, and I’ve kind of gone off it anyway, so I just buy a new one and leave the old one in the spare room, minding my old lighters and lidless lipsticks.

His Nibs does not accept this as a reason to buy another bag.  In fact, he hates when he goes into the spare room and finds a row of handbags on the bed, like a police line-up. 

I knew he’d give out stink if he caught me buying a handbag on Saturday.  And even worse, this time I’d literally have asked for it.  Because I had instructed him to stop me if he saw me buying anything but groceries.  I can’t understand what came over me.

I couldn’t believe I’d been stupid enough to bring that little bag with me, on a trip to a lovely shopping town like Kilkenny.  How would I hide any sneaky purchases I made while he was preoccupied?  I couldn’t relax, worrying about it.

So I ran into the department store.

I didn’t have long.  I knew that he’d eventually follow me, suspicion in every step. It was like a military exercise.  I stood on the steps just inside the door of the shop, and looked at the room from a height.  The women’s department was to my left, toward the back of the store.  Good. His Nibs would take a little while to find me, which would give me more time to complete my purchase before hearing “Not another handbag.  No, put it back, come on, you promised” from behind me.

I took another second and squinted.  In the distance, I saw a flimsy looking fabric, moving in the draught as a woman went past.  It had to be a scarf.  The accessories section.

Off I went, as fast as my legs could carry me, which is not very fast at all, in case you’re interested. I wanted a large, but sort of floppy handbag.  After all, I reasoned to myself, every other woman out there has one, I deserve one (this was preposterous.  Every woman on the street was not carrying such a handbag).  I’d closed my mind to the stacks of large floppy handbags in the spare room.  Sure they were no good to me there, were they? The little bag was driving me mad now.

To be honest, I didn’t love any of the bags.  One was okay, but it had one of those handbag organisers taking up most of the inside, defeating the whole purpose of a big bag.

I’d almost given up when I caught a glimpse of something, at the very back of the shelf.  This one was better.  I looked inside.  Big, floppy, black.  With a bit of plaited fibre stuff around the bottom, like the sole of an espadrille.  It might work, it was a possibility…. The only problem was that there was no zip on the top, so not very safe.  However, attached to the inside of the bag was another little bag, with a zip, for your wallet and phone, so nobody can put their hand in your bag and make off with your valuables.  Yes, I decided, it would do.

As I rushed to the till I could hear the Mission Impossible music playing in my head.  I arrived at the same time as a woman carrying an armful of tee shirts.  I waved the bag, so she’d know I only had one thing.  But the big fecker just said “sorry” and went first.  I was nearly hopping with anxiety.  I kept looking over my shoulder, expecting His Nibs to come gliding over and put a stop to my gallop before I heard the satisfying beep of the till.

I wonder what they thought of me in there.  Running in, wearing large sunglasses, nearly ripping the handbag shelf apart, then practically jogging on the spot while waiting to be served.  They must have thought I was late for my cocaine consignment handover or something.

Finally I got to the till.  The woman asked if she should take the paper stuffing inside the bag out. “God yeah” I was practically hyperventilating “I don’t want my husband to know about it.”

She looked at me carefully.  “Are you ok, love?”

OK, I was being a bit dramatic.  Truth be told, I’d been quite enjoying myself.  I like a bit of innocent subterfuge.  I took my sunglasses off and smiled at her.

“I’m grand, thanks.  I’m not supposed to buy anything I don’t need.  Especially not handbags.  But this little yoke is driving me mad.”  I waggled the small bag at her.

She got it immediately.

“Where is he?”

“Right outside the door.”

“OK.  She whipped out a scissors and took the price tag off the bag.  She took the payment, and gave me the receipt to tuck into my pocket.

“Empty that bag into this one, quick now.  What does he look like?  He’s not a tall lad with grey hair, is he?”  She was looking over my head, a look of concern on her face.

“No, he’s about my height, wearing a hat”

“You’re grand, he’s not there.  Now, I’m not going to give you a bag for the old one, he’ll only ask you what’s in it.  Isn’t it great they’re both black?  He’ll never see it.”  She had her hand in my new bag now, tucking the old one along the bottom.  She gave the bag a few shakes to settle everything into it.

“Now, act normal and he won’t have a clue.  I swear, they don’t look at handbags at all.  Good luck.”

I didn’t believe her.  His Nibs can spot a new handbag from a mile off.  But I put the bag up on my shoulder and brazenly stepped out of the shop.  He looked directly at my empty hands.

“Oh, you didn’t buy anything.  You must be serious.”  He grinned at me, and we went off for a coffee, my guilt weighing me down more than the two handbags I was now carrying. 

I was sure he’d catch me.  It’s not like he’d lock me out of the house or anything, but he’d be giving out and we were having a lovely day, and I just wanted to get away with it.  I never get away with anything.

About an hour later, we were wandering back the way we’d come, for a drink.  We passed the department store again.

“What did you go in there for, earlier?”

“Trainer socks.”  When did I learn to lie like this?  I’m usually the worst liar in the history of the world.  “They didn’t have the ones I wanted.”

I had to tell him in the end.  He’s a good husband, he reads this blog every week.

Love and Marriage. And Housework.

"A soulmate is someone who appreciates your level of weird"

- Bill Murray

Am I the only one who didn’t know that it is still quite common for housework to be divided into women’s work and men’s work?

I’m not happy. 

Not least because men’s work seems to consist of bringing out the bins and mowing the lawn every couple of weeks.  And maybe keeping the cars on the road.  Women’s work, on the other hand, consists of cooking and cleaning and laundry and bathing children and endless thankless toil. 

(Not this woman’s work, I hasten to add.  I have never experienced endless toil in our house.  And I can swear I never will).

I am a lucky ducky to be married to the lovely His Nibs.  A man who would never in a million years say the words “That’s women’s work”.  He would not say these words because he doesn’t believe them.  But I’d imagine he’d be afraid to say them, even if he did.

His Nibs will clean a bathroom and washes the floors and often has a load of washing done and already flapping on the line when I get up of a morning.  He’s willing to do his half of the housework. Of course he always asks me at least three times whether the floors look well, or if I’m pleased with the condition of the bathroom, but he does it.  That’s the main thing.

I strongly suspect that he knows he’s great.  He knows that being a husband who isn’t afraid of the mop and who irons his own shirts is a good thing.  I think maybe the fact that I think he’s great, and he knows he’s great, and my friends say he’s great, is just as sexist as running a house based on women’s work and men’s work.

He recently missed a call on the phone from one of his hurling friends, a lovely man who is happily married.  When His Nibs rang back he explained that he hadn't answered because he hadn’t heard the phone, he was doing the hoovering at the time.

Apparently this man was quite tickled, and asked His Nibs what he’d done wrong to merit such a punishment?  Because it seems this man has never turned on his own hoover in his life.  I couldn’t believe it.

I admit my beloved is not beyond doing something badly in the hopes he won’t be asked to do it again. I'm not being bitchy,  I have proof.  The other day I asked him to put on a whites only wash, which he did.  And he hung it out on the line.  Here is a picture of it, in fact.

For fecks sake.  I don’t even know where he got the black socks, I’d already done the darks wash. 

It’s the same when he cleans the kitchen.  He doesn't wipe down the table or countertops and for no reason I can understand he leaves cupboard doors and drawers open all over the place.

And he’ll never hear the end of the time he put the washing up in the greenhouse.  In the halcyon days when we had a cleaner, I always used to do a quick run around the house, picking up laundry, doing the washing up, that sort of thing, before she arrived.  This was for two reasons.  One, I was ashamed to let the cleaner into the house, in its natural state.  And two, because I always wanted her to wash the fecking floors and clean the pigging bath and do all the horrible things I specifically didn’t want to do.  I didn’t want to waste the precious few hours a week when someone was actually cleaning the house.

One week, I asked for His Nibs’ assistance with the washing up part.  He objected.  I objected to his objection.  To shut me up, he swore on the dog’s life that he would wash up in the morning, before the cleaner arrived.  I was going to work the next day, and he was off.  This suited me down to the ground, since it excused me entirely from my half of the washing up.  I went to bed happy. 

When I arrived home from work that fateful day, my mother was just arriving for the weekend.  His Nibs was pottering around the garden.  He invited my mother out to the glasshouse to review the progress his tomato plants had made, and I put on the kettle.  I was puzzled to discover that although the kitchen was sparkling clean, there was almost no mugs in the cupboard.  I called His Nibs in to discuss the mystery.  My mother followed him, looking a bit shaken.  And it very quickly transpired that he had not washed up.  In fact, when he realised the cleaner was due any minute, he panicked,  fetched a large box, and packed the washing up into it.  Then he deposited it in the glasshouse, to fester in the July sun all day. 

To be fair, I’d imagine His Nibs might have a problem with the fact that while I insist that he complete household chores promptly and willingly, and he is accused of being a sexist pig if he raises any argument whatsoever, I always look completely aghast at him when he suggests that I might like to put air in the tyres of my own car.

“But I don’t know how to do that” I’ll wail.

“I’ve shown you hundreds of times”.

“But it’s so boring when you try to show me, I always lose focus.  And I’ve tried to do it myself, I swear I have.  The problem is that instead of the tyre filling up with air it all empties out.”

And then he tells me for the thousandth time that this is impossible, and I argue, and eventually he loses the will to carry on and brings my car out to check the tyres himself.

Also, I’ve never turned on our lawnmower. 

My excuse is that he loves cars and loves gardening so my doing these jobs would be tantamount to his writing my blog.  This is utter nonsense of course.

Neither of us cook, which is handy.  But His Nibs knows what the various kitchen implements are used for.

The massive and expensive balloon whisk I bought in a fancy kitchen shop in Belgium when I was going through a baking phase some years ago, was effective in the stirring of a tin of paint.

The Pyrex jug I used to use measuring ingredients was also very useful, he tells me, for measuring out motor oil.

And the sieve was very helpful the time he decided his garden was being attacked by some sort of grub.  His Nibs grows an organic garden full of flowers that attract bees and butterflies, and it’s only gorgeous. 

Because of the organic part, he can’t just start using any old chemical the garden centre sells him to get rid of any infestations.  So a full investigation was carried out.  By sieving the soil until he was proven right.  Horrible little grubs wriggled around the bottom of the sieve.  And it could never be used again.

Then there’s the glasses.  Not the wine glasses.  The ordinary glasses you use when you need a glass of water, or a glass of milk.  We have none now.  They’re all gone. 

The garden again.  Another infestation.  Slugs this time.  He used lager to catch them, in disgusting little slug traps.  Slugs like a tipple, it seems.  If you leave lager out for them they will trail around the garden until they find it, then pitch themselves into the trap.  Not a bad way to go, I suppose. His Nibs was not happy with the traps.  Giving them far too much credit in my opinion, he decided the slugs were getting too used to them.  They knew that their slug friends were going in for a drink and never coming out again.  He needed a stealthier approach.

So he took the glasses from the kitchen and buried them in the garden, so that the tops were level with the ground, before adding drink.  The idea was that, the glass being see through, the slugs wouldn’t know that it was a trap, and would throw themselves merrily in for a drink.  It worked beautifully, but now we only have wine glasses in the kitchen.

And no wooden spoons, all of which have been used up in stirring a toxic smelling fertiliser he makes from fermented nettles – don’t ask me, I haven’t a clue.

But at least someone is getting some use out of the kitchen implements I suppose.  It’s not as if I bother them much.

He has destroyed half the contents of a kitchen, but has never used any of the items destroyed for the purpose for which they were designed.  And I really don't care.

I wonder if this is normal, or just another example of how odd we’re getting the longer we stay together?

And Then a Hero Came Along…….

 A hero is someone who voluntarily walks into the unknown – Tom Hanks

 I have great and good tidings.  The reign of terror is over.  Our home is once more ours, we are no longer living under the cosh of fear and servitude that we have coped with for so long.  For last Saturday, as Mariah Carey once warbled, “A hero came along”.

The dog trainer was here.  His name is Houch and I think I might love him.

His Nibs did everything in his limited power to get out of attending.  He announced early in the week that he would not be able to make the appointment on Saturday morning, that he was off on a mission to find a second hand part for his ancient car. 

This did not please me.

A compromise was reached.  Houch changed the time of the appointment, and His Nibs was allowed to go to the car place if he could swear he’d be home by eleven.  I suggested that I should get up and go with him, just to be sure he got home in time, but he declined.  It seems he doesn’t like being supervised while going about his life.  Also, he made the reasonable point that if I had to be dragged from my bed to go with him, the whole business would have to be delayed by another hour.

He was home by eleven.  And I only rang him twice on his way home to ensure that he was sticking to the schedule and there would be no delays. 

When Houch knocked on the door all three hounds went demented, and we couldn’t open the door to let him in, because the threat of escape had hit red alert.

I really didn’t want to spend the first hour of our training session running around the village trying to coax the little feckers home.

We picked the small ones up and grabbed the big one by the collar and finally Houch gained entrance.  I felt this gave him a good grounding on what the next three hours would be like.

I half hoped training would be completed by our sitting at the table, drinking coffee, with me smoking cigarettes and telling sad stories of canine misbehaviour while he nodded and made helpful suggestions.  In my imagination, His Nibs would be rolling around the floor with the dogs, which he often does, and proving that I’m a poor soul with no support and that it’s no wonder that things have got so bad, that it’s not my fault.

That is the exact opposite of what happened.  Houch instructed us to put the dogs back on the floor, as soon as the door was closed.  He then shepherded us all, as a group, into the kitchen and the training began immediately.

I’m not going to tell you all the things he taught us.  That would be wildly unfair to him, because he’s trying to earn a living and if I set out all the things he does, people will think they can use his expertise to train their bold dogs themselves.  Not that I think that would be possible, but if I could save the cost of hiring a professional by reading  instructions, that’s what I’d do.

So instead I’m going to show you all his business card, so that if any of you have a dog that you think could challenge ours in the behaviour stakes, you can ring him. 

This is not a blog that advertises anything, ever.  I have never recommended or denounced any business by name.  This one I’m recommending, but I promise it won’t be a habit.

Suffice it to say that the boldest cheekiest dogs in Ireland were sitting on the floor begging for his attention and whoring themselves out for his love within minutes.  And this served to prove two things.

That Houch is a good dog trainer. 

And that His Nibs and I are a pair of fecking eejits who have absolutely failed, in almost ten years of dog ownership, to teach them anything remotely useful.

The biggest issue, I informed Houch,  was Poppy’s constant escapes.  No problem, he said, but too early in the session to deal with yet, he had to gain Poppy’s trust first. 

He suggested we deal with their jumping up and down and leaping all over us all the time.  So he taught us how to control that.  In ten minutes flat.  After two years of begging them to behave themselves, they were sitting without even being told to.

To be honest, I was a bit cross.  I thought they were highlighting my failings too clearly.

It became clear, at about this time, that the main problem with the three hour session was going to be His Nibs.  His focus was gone on its holidays.  He was all over the place.  He kept trying to start conversations about random things that could bring us off into long talks about irrelevant subjects.  And disappearing from the room for no known reason.  I felt like roaring at him if he didn’t behave himself he would never live to tell the tale.  Instead I just kept saying “Focus, love, focus.”  For all the good it did me I may as well have been blowing kisses at him.

It was obvious that Houch is well used to this type of nonsense, and can control conversations, but even he was reduced to saying things like “great, yeah, now as I was saying” as soon as His Nibs paused for breath.

He taught us how to train them in not going mental every time somebody rings the doorbell or even walks past the house.  With great success.  He told us how to stop the behaviours that lead to Poppy’s escapes.  Finally it was time to deal with the fact that we can’t open the front door without them legging off into the wild blue yonder.  He assured me this wouldn’t be a problem.  I have to say, even though he had proven himself beyond doubt as a trainer, I thought he was going to have a much bigger challenge than he seemed to expect.

Once again I was proven wrong.  We can now open the front door and walk away, and trust them not to run out.

We talked a huge amount about dog behaviour, why they react to certain things the way they do, and what humans need to do to encourage good behaviours.  It was incredibly interesting, and made perfect sense.

And then His Nibs strolled off, out into the garden.  With all three dogs.  I couldn’t believe it.  I was in the kitchen talking to a professional dog trainer, and His Nibs and all our dogs were wandering around the garden looking for trouble.

When I got up, late on Sunday morning, His Nibs and the hounds were already up and about.  So I decided to challenge them.  I could physically see His Nibs chewing his lip, no doubt visualising himself galloping around the estate in the rain, on another rescue mission, when I opened the front door and then went into the living room.  Poppy and Rory stood looking at the door for a second, then turned and followed me. 

I was so confident that when I took Rory out for a walk I brought my phone and headphones with me.  I was confident that I wouldn’t need to keep saying “keep in, walk on, stop trying to eat dogs eight times your size” and would be able to listen to a podcast as I strolled along, the envy of the neighbours, with my perfectly behaved dog.

That didn’t happen.  In fact, he seemed to sense I was getting a bit over confident and took it upon himself to be even bolder than usual.  I was particularly disappointed by this, because he is my favourite, and when we have the usual messing at walk time, I tend to blame the others for leading him astray. 

His Nibs and Poppy out for their walk too, and we were bound to meet in a village the size of ours.  I was amazed to see how good Poppy was being. 

There’s nothing as disappointing as misplaced loyalty.

So the battle is ongoing.  They will behave themselves, or face the wrath of a human enraged by both their behaviour, and the waste of money.  I’d say they have pains in their bellies from the amount of treats they’ve had, to celebrate every aspect of their good behaviour. 

We’re spending this week handing out treats, shouting “No”, holding the front door open and daring them to walk out, and standing outside our own front door knocking on it to give them a bit of practice in not trying to devour every visitor that rolls up to sell us something. 

Which is far more restful than spending our time wrestling them and fighting off tears of frustration when they go bonkers.

It’ll be totally worth it.

Let's Waste Time, Chasing Cars

“You’re entirely bonkers.  But I’ll tell you a secret.  All the best people are”

-          Lewis Carroll,  Alice in Wonderland

 Regular readers (thank you, I love you etc.) will hopefully know by now that even though His Nibs and I drive each other around the bend, he is my all-time favourite person.  He is funny and bold and even though he is careful with his funds, he is kind and generous of spirit.  He’d have to be, I suppose.  Sometimes putting up with me takes a kind and generous spirit.

He is the type of man who, after his first trip to Asia, saved for years to support a little school he saw there, and bought them solar panels and a computer.  When he went to Nicaragua he did something similar for a market gardening project he’d seen there.

He is a very good person.  Far better than me. I was of very little use, I just turned up to these places as his sidekick, and taught the children how to Irish dance (not that I know how to Irish dance, but they didn’t know that), and drank rum, and chatted to the locals. 

And offered endless opinions and advice on how he should spend the money he saved all year while I was spending my wages on handbags and eyeliners.

You might be surprised to learn that being such a kind hearted soul is not necessarily always a good thing.  Sometimes his soft heart gets him into trouble.

His Nibs has an unusual and unshakeable fondness for 1990’s Toyota Corolla saloon cars.  Green ones.

If I had to guess, I’d say at least six identical green Corollas.  He loves them.  He swears that they are the best cars ever built and there’ll never be another car like them.

Last Saturday morning His Nibs informed me that he had agreed to buy yet another Corolla.  The same year as his own, 1997, low mileage, for the sum of €700.  And that he wouldn’t be getting rid of his own car.

My questioning commenced.  Why did he want a car exactly the same as the one he had?  More importantly, what was he going to do with two cars? Did he not think he should go for something newer?  Didn’t he think €700 was a lot for a car that’s twenty years old?

He batted off my questions calmly.  He was happy with his decision.

We have a great arrangement in this house.  We have a bank account each, and a joint one between us.  As long as you put the agreed sum for the mortgage and bills in the joint account every month what you do with the money in your own account is your own business.  His Nibs treats his as a normal person would.  I spend mine in a week and then beg for bailouts from him for the other three weeks of the month.  The situation suits me well.  I can’t speak for His Nibs.

I agreed to company him to the seller’s house the following morning, so he could drive the new purchase home.  Sunday morning rolled around, and His Nibs arrived in our room, coffee in hand, and woke me up.  The fact that he brought me coffee and didn’t wait for me to roar at him that I was awake told me that he had something to say.

He looked awkward and uncomfortable, and eventually blurted out that he was sorry he’d agreed to buy the car.  “Why?” I asked him “Is it because having three cars between two people is ridiculous?”

No, he informed me, it was because to be completely honest, despite the low mileage, this car was in similar condition to his own, although possibly less rusty. 

“You agreed to pay seven hundred euros for a car no better than your own?”  The man never ceases to surprise me.  “Have you gone completely mental?  Sure it’s not worth five hundred.”

“I felt terrible for the woman.  She was desperate to get rid of it.  I felt really sorry for her.”

I started to give many opinions then, about how desperation to get rid of an ancient rustbucket is rarely cured by asking for such a high price.  “No wonder she was desperate” I scoffed “She couldn’t believe her luck.  Desperate to get you to agree.”

“Ah no, love, stop.  The poor woman.  It’s very sad.  It’s her brother’s car, and he died.”

You know the way, when you’ve been married to someone for a long time, you know when there’s something that’s not being said?  I knew.  Because His Nibs was wearing his “I don’t know whether I should tell you this” face.

I immediately arranged my “If you don’t tell me whatever is on your mind I’ll nag you until you lose the will to live” face.

The owner had died in the car.  Not in a car crash, he rushed to assure me.  He’d just died.  And then he was in the car for a long time, until somebody found him.  So long, in fact, that the wipers, which had been on when he died, eventually wore out and left a big black streak across the windscreen.

I stared at him.  The thought of driving around, in the seat where the poor man had sat for hours, waiting to be discovered, gave me the complete and utter creeps.

While he was at it, he decided to tell me the rest of the sad story.  Because of this large and unexpected outlay, there would be no bailouts for me this month.

All scoffing stopped.  I announced that His Nibs was not allowed to buy the car.  This is against all the rules in our house.  The only things we’re not allowed to do are run away with other people, and forbid each other from doing things.

But His Nibs didn’t seem to notice.  The only problem he informed me, was that he had shaken hands on the deal.  He just couldn’t renege on it now.  It wouldn’t be right.

This is what I mean about it not always being a good thing to be such a good person.

He was buying the car from pity, and now he had to follow through because he shook hands on the deal.  I wish he was as honourable when he says he’ll do the housework.  I should shake hands with him every time he promises to wash the floors.

I invited him to ring the woman and inform her that I had said that if he bought the car he had to sleep in it, because he wasn’t allowed back in the house.

I also informed him that the days of a handshake being reason to spend seven hundred euro on a car he’d have to turn around and pay to dispose of are long gone.

He felt so bad that we had to have some practice phone calls.  This is a true story.  Last Sunday morning, two people in their forties sat on a bed in our house and practiced phone calls.  I even held my thumb and pinkie finger to my face in the phone gesture, and started the conversation with the words “ring ring”, for authenticity.

At first His Nibs was himself and I was the seller.  But he felt that I was being far too laid back and nice about the sale being stopped, and we had to swap roles.

The first practice call consisted of him pretending to burst into racking sobs and shout about his broken heart and sad memories.  I suggested that if the woman needed so badly to get rid of the car she should probably lower the price.  Or give it to a scrap dealer.

This irritated His Nibs, so we had to have another practice.  This time he, as the seller, became enraged when I said I wasn’t buying the car and began roaring furiously and threatening to send sons and grandsons up after me to beat me up for my fickleness.

“Does she have sons and grandsons?”

“Oh yes, she had a couple of grandchildren with her when I met her yesterday.”

“Ah sure, then we’re grand.  She’s probably been married.”  I explained that no reasonable wife would expect a man to openly defy his spouse.

“Tell her I’m going mental” I suggested “which I will be, if you don’t ring her and call off this foolishness soon”.

So he rang her.  She was a lovely woman, perfectly reasonable.  I know this because I made him put the phone on speaker.  I’m very nosey.

I think he was secretly disappointed.  There’s not that many old Corollas for sale anymore, apparently.