Lately, there has been a bit of tension in our household. A bit of bickering. My husband and I have been having petty little arguments here and there about this and that, and conversation between the two of us has been short and somewhat snappy.
It’s fair to say, we haven’t really been the best of friends.
We’ve tried to keep it out of earshot of the children, but it came to bit of a head whilst we were on holiday in Devon, with some lovely friends, and all our lovely children. You see, like a lot of people, Ross and I tend to get stressed out with each other in the car, with directions and parking spaces, and when to ignore the sat-nav.
So there we were, driving around Bude, in convoy with our friends, looking for somewhere to park up so we could have a mosey round the shops and grab an ice cream. I’d been asked to look for spaces, and as far as I was concerned, was doing a good job. But each and every space I suggested was shot down as wildly inappropriate, and by the third time we’d driven around the one-way system, and had completely lost sight of our friends, well, let’s just say, my husband was grating on my very last nerve.
“Why bother asking me if you’re just going to ignore everything I say?” I hissed at him.
“Will you just let me park the f*cking car already?” he snapped back.
“Arsehole” I muttered, scowling out of the window. The radio was on, and I didn’t say it loudly, and in my defence, I really thought there was no way it was heard by the little occupants in the back.
At that moment you could cut the atmosphere in our blue ford focus with a knife. The air was thick with annoyance. Until a sweet little voice piped up from the back seat, diffusing the situation entirely:
“Yes, Daddy is a complete arsehole, isn’t he, Mummy?”