More painting, more whinging and still I'm not allowed to sleep!

She who must be obeyed, or at least avoided when she's carrying a knife, decided that since I'd only worked twelve hours on my day off, we should chat. Now I fully understand after 30 years of marriage that grass needs cutting, walls papering and heartfelt assurances that bums do not look big in that and "no, my beloved, you're as pretty as the day I married you". Yet this did not happen on my return as the dreaded soaps were in full swing, for which I was grateful. 

   Unfortunately at 04.30 this morning; coincidently the time we used to ambush people in the Royal Marines as it's estimated people's constitutions are at their lowest and more prone to stupidity and death - which should really have prepared me for marriage, I was awoken by her elbow.
   
   Thinking that the roof may have fallen in, a burglar had chosen us as his preferred target, or WW3 had just begun, I was somewhat disappointed to be told that it was time to change the living room floor. 

   My natural reluctance to discuss such a mundane matters amid the terrified cries of foxes fleeing from my daughter's feline from hell was met with a strange irritation.

   "You never want to talk any more!"

   "I'm always overjoyed to talk with you my petal, my linnet. But does it have to be in the middle of the bl**** night?"

   Suffice to say that she wouldn't let it rest and half an hour later I was exiled from the bedroom. I know I should have learnt by now. I suppose there's just something missing in my make-up.

  I do try, honestly.

   Here's the painting I did as foxes whimpered and the cat's coven of thugs howled in triumph.

Wishful thinking, perhaps.