Declarations Outside The Barn

Jilly Cooper, woman of the moment, one of my favourite people and all round legend once wrote a book entitled “How to Stay Married”. I must confess, I have not read it. I thought, perhaps naively, that it might be full of recipe ideas, dated seventies references and misogyny. 

I regret that assumption, and I am now hunting a copy of that book, because quite frankly, being espoused is challenging.

On Sunday, Big Seymour declared that there are only three things that men want. I can barely bring myself to repeat the three things that he stated, for several reasons… but one was food, and another was “an easy life”.

When he made this statement outside the barn as I was about to leave on yet another mission to The Dump, I was rendered speechless.

I was confused, compromised and cross, all the while considering the merit of what he was saying. I am sure that most people (and not just those that identify as men) appreciate food and an easy life. But we all know that life ain’t always easy, and not everyone is Nigella Lawson. 

For a start, what he said struck me as a massive generalisation. For some, food is of no consequence -or is merely an ingredient of survival. For others – it may be a weapon, or a curse. And human beings haven’t evolved in the way they have by choosing the easy path through life. Going to Space isn’t easy, yet we as a species have done it.  Brain surgery is not easy. School isn’t easy. Sometimes, taking one step in front of the other is ridiculously, torturously hard.

Now, Big Seymour is essentially a good egg, and his declarations on Sunday were probably slightly tongue-in-cheek… or at least I hope they were, because as I drove away towards The Dump with a van full of yet more crap, I tried to process my reaction.

Firstly, I felt separate – part of a different group of people whose job it somehow is to provide an opposite sex with food, an easy life and whatever else they may desire .  And in feeling separate, I was made to feel somewhat… less. I know that this is one very popular, yet rather old-fashioned, school of thought. You can’t escape embedded stereotypes, even now. And here I go with my foot-in-both-camps antics again, because there is a small part of me that accepts these stereotypes. When I was a stay at home parent who found looking after four kids enjoyable and not a chore, and Big Seymour was out all day until late fixing things, it seemed fair that I organised the food part. But this is not a role I have ever done well. My relationship with catering is and always had been strained. Each household should do what suits, but any expectation that it’s only the woman’s role grates on me, and makes me want to rebel.

Secondly, I felt suspicious: Big Seymour has never been one for such ideals nor declarations of the same. So why now?

And lastly, I felt downright bemused. What, I asked myself, if he has such requirements, does he see in me? He knows I am no cook. He also knows that life with me is not “easy”. I am complex. I am a little strange. I have my… moments.

My bemusement, sense of inferiority and suspicion dissipated after I had humped several large sacks over the parapet of the appropriate container at The Dump, and after tearing around town trying to find a working photo booth for a provisional driving licence application, I returned home with a conclusion in my head – one that I am going to run with:

Big Seymour, in spite of my poor culinary skills, temperamental nature and a tendency to be just a teeny bit prudish, must quite like me, because he is inexplicably still here after what will be (oh dear God I can barely type it) thirty years in February. 

THIRTY YEARS. 

FAAAAAAAAAK.

I think, after such a large amount of time, I can safely strop off to The Dump, and he can make strange declarations outside his barn that seem totally out of character, and it will all be ok. 

But if he is hoping that one day I will find my Cordon Bleu era, stop obsessing over seemingly random stuff or start donning a gimp suit, he may be disappointed. I have a job now. Cooking will remain a chore and not a pleasure. My brain will never stop whirring out of control, and once a prude, always a prude.

In actual fact, Big Seymour’s soapbox moment was heartfelt and rather well delivered, and for that, I was impressed. As for the merits of his subject matter…. well, we can always afford ourselves the luxury of agreeing to disagree. 

Thirty years have earned us that! 

 #30years!

#ihopejillywouldapprove

#prudeandproud