Last Sunday morning I was making the kids breakfast in the kitchen. I heard the pitter-patter of little feet – the unmistakable sound of Meri, my three year old scampering through the dining room to the kitchen.
“Daddy wants to watch the football Meri,” I explained patiently.
She shot me that look. “But I need to watch CBeebies,” she insisted. I had to relent and sadly, I will now never know how Liverpool beat Sunderland six-nil without mad dog Suarez.
About half an hour later, I finally got round to getting myself some breakfast. I was just about to butter my toast when Clare, my wife swooped in and took the knife off me. She put some extra spread on her crumpet before handing the knife back to me, devoid of butter.
“I was using that,” I protested.
She shrugged, “Get over it.” She smiled mischievously, “And remember, you love me.”
I sat down at the dining room table feeling beleaguered and thoroughly hen-pecked and grumpily ate my toast.
Clare was sitting opposite me tucking into her breakfast. Again, the pitter-patter sound of feet and Meri appeared in the dining room. She made a beeline for Clare and more specifically Clare’s crumpet.
“Want some,” said Meri.
“It’s mummy’s,” retorted Clare.
As I watched this battle of wills unfold across the dining room table, a smile broke out across my face.
“What’s so funny?” asked Clare.
“I just had a thought. I pity the fool that marries Meri.”
“Why?” Clare cocked her head, confused.
“Because the poor bugger will have Meri as a wife and you as a mother-in-law.”
Clare shot me that look.
