he
REALLY want to make Wonderhubby ?
To tell the truth, on the journey home (predictably
hellish) I grew even more confused. I couldn't work out
whether Dom was taking the piss, and whether I was
going to be one of those people who was abused by the
TV, misrepresented, etc. But as soon as I think about
the potential dosh (minus the cost of one expensive
television) all those thoughts are dispelled.
Will discuss with Sally over the weekend. I think I
know what she'll think.
Sunday 3 February
My suspicions were right. Sally thinks it's a crap idea. It
was clear she didn't really want to talk about it, so I
dropped the subject, which I thought was rather mature
of me, or perhaps indicated that we've now been
married long enough to know what's worth discussing,
and what's not.
Monday 4 February
Email from Dom, outlining the structure of the show –
pretty much as I had explained, so some of my
presentation must have gone in. It appears that he is
being genuine. I still can't quite believe his enthusiasm.
However, he wrote that just because they'd bought into
it, it didn't mean that the TV stations would. They
pitched hundreds of ideas per year, and only a handful
got made, so I wasn't to get my hopes up.
Still, I can't help but think of fame and fortune. I'm
doing my best to mask my excitement from Sally, not
least because she is having an even more crap time at
work. Every time she gets home, she seems even more
exhausted than she did the night before. This evening
she looked terrible (not so terrible as to look
unfanciable, but just really really tired).
As we ate supper, I asked her what the matter was.
She gave that familiar I-can't-tell-you sigh.
'I know it's all Top Secret,' I said as I carved into our
(perfectly cooked) lamb chops, 'but it seems as though
you're carrying the weight of the world on your
shoulders.'
At that, Sally's shoulders literally fell, and she sighed
again.
'Is everybody at work like you?' I asked.
'How do you mean?'
'You know – tired.'
'Pretty much. But more just us in Central Asia.'
'I know you don't want to tell me, but I can only
assume that something nasty's brewing, and I'll also
assume that it's terrorists with dirty bombs or nukes or
something and that you're doing your best to stop it.
And I know this sounds silly, but it really does seem to
be getting you down, getting you down to the extent
that you almost seem depressed.'
Sally shook her head as she put down her knife and
fork. The lamb chop – again, I must stress, perfectly
cooked – remained largely untouched.
'I don't think I'm depressed,' she argued. 'But it is
very stressful. I obviously can't say whether you're right
or not, but if we fuck things up, then a lot of people
could get hurt in a very nasty way. And it's up to us and
the Americans to stop it all happening. And part of the
problem is that the Americans think we've fucked up,
and we think they've fucked up, and so there's a lot of
crap flying around between us, crap that's getting in the
way of us doing our fucking jobs and stopping what it is
we're trying to stop.'
I'd never heard Sally so uncouth. I rather liked it.
'And is your neck on the line if it all goes wrong?'
I briefly marvelled at my mixed metaphor.
'In a way, it doesn't matter about my neck,' she
replied. 'Small beer compared to what would have
happened if things had got to the stage where my neck
was for the chop.'
'How much longer is this going to go on for?'
'I have no idea,' she said.
She got up, went to the fridge, and extracted a bottle
of Chablis.
'How long is a piece of string, huh?' I asked.
'Exactly.'
She rummaged around the drawer for the corkscrew
and then proceeded to cut the foil around the top of
the bottle. I watched her, inwardly remarking that it was
always me who opened wine, probably because I'm
more of a dipso. Sally's lack of practice soon became
evident.
'Here,' I said, 'let me do it.'
'I can bloody do it myself,' she snapped.
'OK, OK.'
She couldn't,
REALLY want to make Wonderhubby ?
To tell the truth, on the journey home (predictably
hellish) I grew even more confused. I couldn't work out
whether Dom was taking the piss, and whether I was
going to be one of those people who was abused by the
TV, misrepresented, etc. But as soon as I think about
the potential dosh (minus the cost of one expensive
television) all those thoughts are dispelled.
Will discuss with Sally over the weekend. I think I
know what she'll think.
Sunday 3 February
My suspicions were right. Sally thinks it's a crap idea. It
was clear she didn't really want to talk about it, so I
dropped the subject, which I thought was rather mature
of me, or perhaps indicated that we've now been
married long enough to know what's worth discussing,
and what's not.
Monday 4 February
Email from Dom, outlining the structure of the show –
pretty much as I had explained, so some of my
presentation must have gone in. It appears that he is
being genuine. I still can't quite believe his enthusiasm.
However, he wrote that just because they'd bought into
it, it didn't mean that the TV stations would. They
pitched hundreds of ideas per year, and only a handful
got made, so I wasn't to get my hopes up.
Still, I can't help but think of fame and fortune. I'm
doing my best to mask my excitement from Sally, not
least because she is having an even more crap time at
work. Every time she gets home, she seems even more
exhausted than she did the night before. This evening
she looked terrible (not so terrible as to look
unfanciable, but just really really tired).
As we ate supper, I asked her what the matter was.
She gave that familiar I-can't-tell-you sigh.
'I know it's all Top Secret,' I said as I carved into our
(perfectly cooked) lamb chops, 'but it seems as though
you're carrying the weight of the world on your
shoulders.'
At that, Sally's shoulders literally fell, and she sighed
again.
'Is everybody at work like you?' I asked.
'How do you mean?'
'You know – tired.'
'Pretty much. But more just us in Central Asia.'
'I know you don't want to tell me, but I can only
assume that something nasty's brewing, and I'll also
assume that it's terrorists with dirty bombs or nukes or
something and that you're doing your best to stop it.
And I know this sounds silly, but it really does seem to
be getting you down, getting you down to the extent
that you almost seem depressed.'
Sally shook her head as she put down her knife and
fork. The lamb chop – again, I must stress, perfectly
cooked – remained largely untouched.
'I don't think I'm depressed,' she argued. 'But it is
very stressful. I obviously can't say whether you're right
or not, but if we fuck things up, then a lot of people
could get hurt in a very nasty way. And it's up to us and
the Americans to stop it all happening. And part of the
problem is that the Americans think we've fucked up,
and we think they've fucked up, and so there's a lot of
crap flying around between us, crap that's getting in the
way of us doing our fucking jobs and stopping what it is
we're trying to stop.'
I'd never heard Sally so uncouth. I rather liked it.
'And is your neck on the line if it all goes wrong?'
I briefly marvelled at my mixed metaphor.
'In a way, it doesn't matter about my neck,' she
replied. 'Small beer compared to what would have
happened if things had got to the stage where my neck
was for the chop.'
'How much longer is this going to go on for?'
'I have no idea,' she said.
She got up, went to the fridge, and extracted a bottle
of Chablis.
'How long is a piece of string, huh?' I asked.
'Exactly.'
She rummaged around the drawer for the corkscrew
and then proceeded to cut the foil around the top of
the bottle. I watched her, inwardly remarking that it was
always me who opened wine, probably because I'm
more of a dipso. Sally's lack of practice soon became
evident.
'Here,' I said, 'let me do it.'
'I can bloody do it myself,' she snapped.
'OK, OK.'
She couldn't,
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