Revenge of a Married Woman

This is a story of sadism. It’s the story of a man being pushed to the edge of his reason by a woman. His very sanity hanging by a thread. It’s the story of a woman who simply took her pleasure wherever and whenever she wanted.

It started when I was lying in bed, my left foot still doing its Jabba the Hut impersonation, the medieval pestilence jogging cheerfully round my body.

Are you coming down to eat? my wife texted.

Can’t get out of bed.

Shame. I’m having bread and cheese. A few olives. Pate. And red wine.

Oh yes. Bread and cheese; olives…

I was in a little taverna on a Greek beach; the sun beating down, the waves gently lapping. I reached out for my glass of wine… And the pain in my foot dragged me back to reality. I groaned. How could she? Without me? I took my tablets, sipped my Lucozade and sucked on a biscuit.

By the next day I’d made it as far as the sofa. But not without Relate nearly being involved…

“The GP was very explicit. Lie down with my foot above my head.”

“Fair enough. You can pair these socks up while you’re lying there.”

“For goodness sake. I can’t even work on my laptop so I obviously can’t pair socks or whatever I’m supposed to do with them.”

“But you can watch football?”

“Of course. It takes my mind off the pain.” My wife wasn’t convinced. Revenge of a Married Woman (episode 6,583) could only be a matter of time…

Thirty minutes later my beloved daughter entered the room. Jessica. The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.

“Mum’s making Margaritas,” she announced.

“Oh, that’s good. I’m probably strong enough for a pizza. Shame I can’t have a beer with all these damn antibiotics. Would be ideal for football.” My daughter smirked. What was wrong with the silly girl? “Can you ask Mum to put some pepperoni on one of them? There must be something in the fridge. Maybe she could make a Hawaiian or whatever that one with ham and pineapple is called.”

Jessica gave me the special look she reserves for when I’m being particularly stupid. “Not Margheritas, Dad. Margaritas. Mexican – not Italian.”

“What? Like the cocktail?”

“Exactly like the cocktail, Dad…”

“She can’t. It’s…it’s only Wednesday.” Not that what day it was had ever stopped my wife before.

Hang on. Jessica had said ‘Margaritas.’ Plural. That meant two of them.

“What’s going on?” I said as I hobbled into the kitchen.

“We’re having Margaritas,” my wife replied, somewhat superfluously. “If you’re only strong enough to watch football then I’m only strong enough to drink a Margarita. Don’t forget to take your antibiotics,” she added. “Shame you can’t join us.”

“Don’t think you should be leading Jessica astray,” I muttered.

Not that our daughter seemed to need leading astray. “Are you sure you’ve put enough tequila in, Mum? And it says here you have to rim the glass with salt.” Then she turned her attention to me. “I’m not being led astray, Dad. I told Mum I’d rather have Sex on the Beach but we’ve no Peach Schnapps.”

‘No Peach Schnapps.’ There you have it. A deprived childhood summed up in three words. I shook my head sadly, apologised profusely and offered to hop to Austria.

“This is rather good,” my wife said ten minutes later, standing over me as I slumped back on the sofa. “I could get used to this. But Jessica was right. Maybe a touch more tequila next time…”

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