My husband left a copy of The Spectator open on the table by his chair, next to the little cardboard mat with a browning glass-ring on it where for most hours of the day he keeps his whisky glass. It was of course open at the letters page, where a kind-hearted reader expressed a most unwise readiness to hear more from him. I can’t say I’ve heard much more of him than usual, for he seldom ventures into the kitchen for fear that I should answer ‘Yes’ to the question he feels he must ask upon entering: ‘Anything I can do?’ But as they say, if you can’t do the time, don’t sign the marriage lines.
Perhaps we have been slightly stir crazy for years. It is only now, though, that I discover my assumptions about that phrase were wrong.
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