a good shape. For a jacket.'
'I like the shape.'
'Fair enough. Right, I'm going…'
'What else?'
'Did I say there was…'
'What else?'
'The material is unpleasant.'
'No it's not.'
'And the pattern is awful.'
'The pattern's nice.'
'And it doesn't appear to fit properly – look at the arms.'
'That's how it's supposed to fit.'
'Fair enough, then.'
'I like it. I'm going to wear it always.''
'OK.'
She places it back on the hanger, lets me know I'm a fool and we go on about our business.
The next day Margret's friend calls round to drop something off quickly. She drops it off (quickly), they (quickly) talk for four and a half hours, and then she has to dash. Coincidentally, I'm coming down the stairs when Margret is seeing her out. As Margret is by the door she says to her, 'Oh, look, I bought a new jacket. What do you think?'
'Well,' the friend replies, 'if you like it…'
Margret returns the jacket to the shop, immediately.
Immediately
.
73
Margret: 'Mmm… Is anything in the world better than the feel of fresh bed sheets?'
Mil: 'Yes.'
74
Do you remember the thing about 'Shut up'? It's not on this page anymore but, if you're an old-timer (or, I suppose, on the Mailing List and have read through the stuff that's no longer here) you might recall it. Well, she's sort of at it again.
I was looking for something that should have been somewhere, and wasn't. I asked Margret where it was, and she said, 'It's in the bedroom.'
'No, it isn't,' I replied – having just come from searching in the bedroom for about ten increasingly tantrumy minutes.
'Yes, it is,' she repeated.
'It's not. I've looked there.'
An expression of amused indulgence came over her face the subtleties of which I can't quite convey, so I'll have to make do with the description of it as, 'absolutely bleeding infuriating.'
'How much,' she said, 'will you give me if I find it?'
OK, so this operates on two levels. The first is simple sadism. Margret knows the agony it would cause me if – after my prolonged, stomping insistence that
it isn't there
– she calmly walks over and places her hand immediately on it. Tauntingly, she knows that just the
possibility
of this happening is quite probably enough for my nerve to crack. She is well aware that if, just one more time, my frustrated raging of, 'The nail scissors aren't here.
See?
They're not bloody here. Do you understand? Not… Here… Look! Go on!
You
try to find them then! Go on! Where are they then? Eh?' receives the near-instantaneous reply, 'Here they are,' and a pair of nail scissors, then I'm simply going to have to run away to sea. Can you see the other level, the one which ties it in kind with the 'Shut up' affair, though? Have a think.
That's it, well spotted: monetary gain. If I've maintained that something isn't somewhere until I've had to jump up and down, hold my breath and squeal that she's not my
real
mom, then simple, human decency should compel Margret to say, 'Yes, you're right,' rather than go there and find it. Going there and finding it is what you'd expect a Colombian Death Squad to do. What separates Margret from a Colombian Death Squad – perhaps the only thing that does – is subtlety. She's awfully keen to make that bet about finding things, isn't she? Now… why could that be? Well, obviously, it's because she's rigged the deck. The reason I can't find what I'm looking for is that she's previously spotted what I'm looking for, and moved it.
I have innate positioning instincts, you see: like a salmon returning thousands of miles across unmarked oceans, right to the stream where it was born. In exactly the same way, when I've finished using it, I will place a screwdriver on top of a bedroom radiator and – when I need it again, perhaps eighteen months later – unerringly return to that spot to retrieve it. Frequently, to discover that Margret has, maddeningly, taken it upon herself to transfer it to somewhere else. My instincts, moreover,
'I like the shape.'
'Fair enough. Right, I'm going…'
'What else?'
'Did I say there was…'
'What else?'
'The material is unpleasant.'
'No it's not.'
'And the pattern is awful.'
'The pattern's nice.'
'And it doesn't appear to fit properly – look at the arms.'
'That's how it's supposed to fit.'
'Fair enough, then.'
'I like it. I'm going to wear it always.''
'OK.'
She places it back on the hanger, lets me know I'm a fool and we go on about our business.
The next day Margret's friend calls round to drop something off quickly. She drops it off (quickly), they (quickly) talk for four and a half hours, and then she has to dash. Coincidentally, I'm coming down the stairs when Margret is seeing her out. As Margret is by the door she says to her, 'Oh, look, I bought a new jacket. What do you think?'
'Well,' the friend replies, 'if you like it…'
Margret returns the jacket to the shop, immediately.
Immediately
.
73
Margret: 'Mmm… Is anything in the world better than the feel of fresh bed sheets?'
Mil: 'Yes.'
74
Do you remember the thing about 'Shut up'? It's not on this page anymore but, if you're an old-timer (or, I suppose, on the Mailing List and have read through the stuff that's no longer here) you might recall it. Well, she's sort of at it again.
I was looking for something that should have been somewhere, and wasn't. I asked Margret where it was, and she said, 'It's in the bedroom.'
'No, it isn't,' I replied – having just come from searching in the bedroom for about ten increasingly tantrumy minutes.
'Yes, it is,' she repeated.
'It's not. I've looked there.'
An expression of amused indulgence came over her face the subtleties of which I can't quite convey, so I'll have to make do with the description of it as, 'absolutely bleeding infuriating.'
'How much,' she said, 'will you give me if I find it?'
OK, so this operates on two levels. The first is simple sadism. Margret knows the agony it would cause me if – after my prolonged, stomping insistence that
it isn't there
– she calmly walks over and places her hand immediately on it. Tauntingly, she knows that just the
possibility
of this happening is quite probably enough for my nerve to crack. She is well aware that if, just one more time, my frustrated raging of, 'The nail scissors aren't here.
See?
They're not bloody here. Do you understand? Not… Here… Look! Go on!
You
try to find them then! Go on! Where are they then? Eh?' receives the near-instantaneous reply, 'Here they are,' and a pair of nail scissors, then I'm simply going to have to run away to sea. Can you see the other level, the one which ties it in kind with the 'Shut up' affair, though? Have a think.
That's it, well spotted: monetary gain. If I've maintained that something isn't somewhere until I've had to jump up and down, hold my breath and squeal that she's not my
real
mom, then simple, human decency should compel Margret to say, 'Yes, you're right,' rather than go there and find it. Going there and finding it is what you'd expect a Colombian Death Squad to do. What separates Margret from a Colombian Death Squad – perhaps the only thing that does – is subtlety. She's awfully keen to make that bet about finding things, isn't she? Now… why could that be? Well, obviously, it's because she's rigged the deck. The reason I can't find what I'm looking for is that she's previously spotted what I'm looking for, and moved it.
I have innate positioning instincts, you see: like a salmon returning thousands of miles across unmarked oceans, right to the stream where it was born. In exactly the same way, when I've finished using it, I will place a screwdriver on top of a bedroom radiator and – when I need it again, perhaps eighteen months later – unerringly return to that spot to retrieve it. Frequently, to discover that Margret has, maddeningly, taken it upon herself to transfer it to somewhere else. My instincts, moreover,
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