Sitting here surveying my garden through an icicle framed bay window, the scene of snowflakes laying gently on a chaste white lawn plays out in front of me.
Exuding a serenity akin to witnessing the aftermath of a vigorously shaken snow globe, this sight bestows cathartic qualities of calm and silence. An inner tranquillity that will remain present in my soul until my OCD gets awoken from it’s rare slumber. A reveille manifested by the inevitable future blemishing of the pure driven snow.
While I seek the prose to do justice to this aesthetically pleasing vision, courtesy of the meteorological gods, my wife Karen is standing adjacent ironing a pile of recently dried laundry. Steam not only emanating from the iron, but also her beautifully sculptured ears.
Her wrath a consequence of me leaving a tissue in a pair of jeans I shoved in the washing basket yesterday. An oversight that’s resulting in her last laundry load being covered in nearly as much white fluff as our back lawn.
Strangely, even my recurring compliments about her beautifully sculptured ears aren’t placating her. Karen just keeps her head down, removing clothing creases with the hot iron. The silence in the room only broken with her intermittent cries of “Will you bloody shut up about my beautifully sculptured, you chuffing idiot!”
As I commence this section of today’s literary odyssey, my missus has completed her ironing. Sitting on the sofa with her splendid lugs reflecting the cascaded snowflakes outside, Karen absorbs the show business tittle-tattle being broadcast on day-time TV.
Celebrities life events cascaded by the show to it’s prurient viewers, akin to a latter day fish wife gossiping with her neighbour over the garden fence. The fictional shenanigans of a soap opera star now the target of the tittle-tattle, as opposed the misdemeanours of Mr Cheesecloth at number 73.
It looks like I spoke too soon, Karen is back ironing. She’d merely taken a gossip break to learn when and how Phelan in Corrie is going to get his long overdue comeuppance.
Even, though, it broadcasts very little that interests me, the bits I do watch on daytime TV can be bizarrely addictive. Whether that is watching low budget home improvement shows (Homes Under the Hammer), high maintenance individuals seeking a life in Australia (Wanted Down Under), or a minor claims court under the stewardship of an uber camp judge (Judge Rinder).
I liken my viewing of daytime TV to ‘rubber-neckers’ striving to get a view of a car crash on the opposite carriageway. You know it’s wrong, but can’t help peeking at the incident causing 10 mile tailbacks in the other direction and slowing down everyone in your wake.
Watching Judge Rinder always reminds me of former Labour Chancellor Denis Healey’s 1978 put down of the undemonstrative, quietly spoken Geoffrey Howe (Chancellor of the Exchequer during Margaret Thatcher’s reign). Healey attributed to claiming that a verbal attack from Howe was ‘…. like being savaged by a dead sheep’.
To me, the participants body language on the esteemed judge’s show give an impression that his courtroom admonishments are akin to Howe’s political attacks on Healey back in the day.
That being said, my reading of body language isn’t the best. As proved earlier by the misreading of my wife’s feelings on being constantly informed she has beautifully sculptured ears.