Anniversary

My son is practicing the art of domestic survival.

He was around this afternoon and we got to talking birthdays and anniversaries. He turned twenty eight this week and my wife and I celebrate our 32nd wedding anniversary in two weeks time.

We were hanging about in the kitchen while my wife was cleaning out a few cupboards. Perhaps our son’s wife was cleaning up as well and had kicked him out of the house for a few hours. My wife pulled out the old electric frypan, a wedding present which had given years of faithful service. Last month it was displaced by a fancy new one and it has been sulking in the cupboard ever since. If only it knew what it was in for today.

‘I’ll go chuck that thing out’, I said, and I started to the back door. ‘Which bin do you reckon?’ I asked my wife with a grin. (That’s me with the grin, not my wife – she was too busy multitasking or whatever it is that women do these days.) The council yesterday gave everyone in our street a brand spanker recycle bin and they expect us to think before we chuck. Son number one said, ‘After thirty two years you should have had that one worked out already.’

He’ll go a long way, that boy. As long as he stays out of reach of his wife when she’s cleaning out cupboards.

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