Hide and Seek...

H once told me that she could never take to a man who asked her to locate his third favourite pair of socks for him. Quite how H was ever in such domestic pre-nuptial proximity to a fellow as to be exchanging conversation on the matter of his socks is something best on which not to dwell, but I do see her essential point.

No man should so waste the life the good Lord gave him as to mentally order his socks by degree of personal preference. All right, one accepts that there are dress socks for formal dinner with the Bish and thick woollen ones for strolls in the country, but that is merely form following function and does not impute any favouritism in the matter. Socks are socks. 'End of' - as E would say, and generally does whenever I wish to engage with her in spirited debate about any aspect of her behaviour I find less than acceptable from the parental perspective.

Nor indeed would one [female one that is] wish particularly to be hitched up to a fellow so feeble as to not be capable of finding his own socks without assistance. One [male one this is] does look to the female for a lead on more significant matters such as what to do with one's life, or whether threatening to preach a two-hour homily is a wise tactic to employ when the Bish announces he's dropping over for Vespers next Sunday (as he will and I shan't). But on more mundane matters such as dressing oneself per diem a certain self-sufficiency (this side at least of utter dotage) is the least one [male again] can do to balance the domestic load.

That said, this compact only works if the distaff side agrees not to move one's things continually and arbitrarily without notice aforehand or advisement after the fact. If I leave a book or a pen or any other item of use at some seemingly random place about the house, I will unerringly find it later even though I cannot consciously recall its location. This innate and effective tracking device of mine though is vulnerable to H's pandemic habit of seizing on said item as being in the 'wrong place' - a decision quite as arbitrary as my own - thence putting it somewhere else, a place that will have logic to her though now totally lost to me.

There is, of course, a point in principle here concerning mutual respect for persons, but it less this than the pragmatics of the situation that so annoy me. Shooting, as one does, from pillar to post and back again in a seemingly unending flight from task to task, one [male again] simply does not have the time to be constantly bellowing out "And where has my X vanished to this time?" or "I know my Y was in the kitchen so where have you put it now?"

Any counsellor worth her or his salt would talk of 'creative tension' here. Drop the creativity aspect of the notion and I'd be in full agreement.

(Have, finally, a feeling that this rant has been heard before, but no doubt it has been moved at some point which is why I can't locate it!)