Last night as we sat outside in the setting sun, a wine in my hand a beer and a ciggie in his, we admired the frame he had spent the afternoon building, one step closer to that fourth bedroom.
Romantic, well no. The conversation turns to when the second wall will be built. “I’ll build it tomorrow”, he says.
[this is where I begin to predict the future]
“No you won’t.” I reply.
He looks confused. “I will” he says.
“Nup. You have a beer in your hand, we’re going over to the neighbours for a bbq tonight and you’re buggered. You’re gonna drink like a fish, you won’t eat any food cos you’ll fill up on beer, and you won’t go to bed until 2am. That wall, ain’t getting built tomorrow.”
The next morning I find him on the sofa, I hand him the baby and shout, “Renovating waits for no man!” and I head into our daughters room to paint. Sweet, sweet revenge for him trying to keep me up for a “yarn” at 1am last night.
He couldn’t get off the sofa except to venture out for a chilli bbq beef kebab.