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Singularly Married

Lisa Gray

    I get married fortnightly. It’s a simple ceremony.
    Ring on.
    I get divorced a few hours later. It’s even simpler.
    Ring off.
    I didn’t used to.
    I used to be single. I’d been that way since I was born. But then I hadn’t bought a house.
    Four walls, a roof. Couldn’t cause any problems.
    Wrong.
    Houses need maintenance. And maintenance means men. Okay, I hear you women’s libbers out there groaning already. Some of us have been known to swing a paintbrush or paper a wall but there comes a time in every woman’s life when she needs a man!
    And mine had arrived.
    Now, gullible idiot that I was, I thought all men were like me. Straightforward. Trustworthy. Honest. Diligent.
    I’ve learnt better since.
    They’re bullies.
    Now there’s different kinds of bullies. And you have to watch out for them!
    There’s the swaggering, cocky, apparently confident but always - comes - in - twos, type of bully who says things like,
    “There’s no way your aerial is suitable for Freeview, dear,” leaving you begging at his and his colleague’s hastily departing backs,
    “What about installing an outside aerial?” you shout.
    “No use in this area, dear! Bad reception,” he mutters, slamming the door behind him.
    Then there’s the “This job’s going to take longer than I thought” type of bully. He’s usually a quiet, serious loner, who you, sucker that you are, believe to be the strong, dependable type. He proceeds to take your vacuum cleaner to pieces very slowly, laying each piece, methodically, all over your kitchen floor while you struggle from stopping the dog picking up each tiny screw and choking to death. He charges you five hours labour for removing a piece of jammed fluff that should have only taken five minutes!
    Then there’s the “This is a bigger job than I thought” type of bully. You call him in because there’s a damp patch on your roof from a leaking overhead shower! He usually arrives with his mate and you spend ten minutes chasing them from room to room while he points out the fact you’ll need a complete new en-suite. And worse.
    “Course, the pipes run all the way through here and along here,” he says leading you through the bedroom and out into the hall, pointing at the roof.
     You can barely keep up with his speed as he goes down the stair, like he’s an artist, taking a line for a walk.
    “There’s been a leak here at one time,” he says, drawing his hand along the roof of the stair and down into the lounge, “and here. Course all this would need to be ripped out.”
    “Can you send me a quote?” you say weakly, at his entire mercy.
    He obliges a week later, with a bill that would make even Donald Trump cringe.
    Watch out for the “I’m young, good to my mother but oh so sexy with it” type of man. They’ll come to fix your computer for you, explain intelligently to you exactly what’s wrong, give you their life story, which is inevitably happier than yours, and take away your computer.
    They may as well take away your life!
    You’re left, making frantic daily calls, to an answer-phone, hoping he’ll eventually take pity on you.
    Next there’s the “Come and see what a good job I’ve done” type of man. They’re usually elderly but still think they’re Rod Stewart. All you want him to do is the job. All you want to do is have lunch!
    There’s a knock at your patio door.
    “I’ve cut your grass,” says the voice, beckoning you enticingly outside in forty degrees below Zero temperatures.
    What does he want? A medal!
    Three hours later you come back in, sore throat, sneezing violently and as cold as the meat in your supermarket’s freezer, to find your soup has boiled all over the kitchen stove and the dog has pooped on the floor!
    Last but not least, beware the “I know someone who can do it cheaply for you” type of man. He and his friend have the whole female neighbourhood tied up between them. They make the Mafia look like amateurs! His friend will paint your house for you using water colours that would make Monet weep and stain you almost wished were there. The cost will sting your eyes like the paint could never do and you know, deep down, the man will offer kindly to come back next year and do it again for you.
    He can afford it!
    It was after that I got married. A simple ceremony.
    Ring on.
    “You’ve got married!” said the man, returning a week later, after my call.
    “Monday,” I said. “Had to be quick. He’s offshore!”
    I could see pound signs lighting up his eyes.
    “He’s not happy,” I said.
    “Oh,” he said, meekly.
    I pointed at the door. The week’s rain had produced an effect Monet would have cried for.
    “I see what you mean,” he apologised. “Not a problem. I’ll give it another coat.”
    I looked at him, my ringed left hand carelessly caressing my face.
    “No charge of course,” he said, hastily.
    I smiled as I closed the door. And got divorced.
    Ring off.
    I’m single now.
    And I have a house. Four walls and a roof. Houses need maintenance. And maintenance means men. There comes a time in every woman’s life when she needs a man. I don’t have any problems. I always find them straightforward, honest, trustworthy and diligent.
    I was wrong. Men are not bullies.
    Men are like me.
    They just don’t know it.

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