I knew Stuart was going to get rather drunk when he called asking me to meet him at the pub near his work that sells jugs (pitchers) of Carling for seven quid. I didn’t go because I had a client meeting out in Warrington in the morning and drinking did not seem like the smartest thing I could do.
(The train ride up to Warrington was nice. Lots of rolling green hills dotted with sheep and spotted cows. Warrington however may be one of the most depressing places I have ever been to in my entire life. Then again, I haven’t been to Slough. Or Swindon.)
When he came home, yes dear reader, he was off his tits. “Thomas! I have had all sorts of cocktails. I am a regular walking Fleetwood Mac!” (I must admit, I immediately turned and wrote that phrase down because it may be one of the funniest things he has said ever.)
I went to bed and I could hear him putting around downstairs, washing his face, brushing his teeth. It seemed to take ages. I feel asleep.
Finally, he burst into the bedroom. “Thomas! I’ve done a bad, bad thing.”
“What?”
“How do you feel about sculpture?”
“How do I? What?”
“Sculpture. What are your feelings about it?”
“I was sleeping.”
“Never mind.”
“No, what?”
“No.”
“Stuart.”
“Promise you won’t get mad.”
Now I was wide-awake.
“What?”
“Just forget it. I’ll show you in the morning.”
“Show me now.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
This went on for a few minutes.
He finally agreed to show me his ’sculpture’. There on the kitchen table was my handbag. My handbag that I would be using the next day for my client meeting. I wish I had taken a picture of it, but I was too angry.
He had stuffed it full of yellow onions. Long wooden spoons and chopsticks were sticking out from the onions. Around thirty matchbooks from various restaurants were balanced on top of the onions. My keys were balanced on top of one of wooden spoons.
I did the only thing that I could do. I sputtered. “My, my, my, my! Handbag! Handbag!”
“It’s art!”
“I- you- my!”
“You said you wouldn’t be mad.”
I pulled out the wooden spoons and the chopsticks, tossed them into the sink and started to pull out the onions.
It was then that I discovered that he had also stuffed in the bag, under the onions our entire collection of take out menus, two bags of raman noodles, a mars bar (recently extracted from the fridge) and a box of toothpicks. It was the toothpicks that pushed me over the edge. I managed to knock open the box. Toothpicks all over on the inside of my bag.
“Just leave me alone for a few minutes.”
“But Thomas.”
“Just leave me alone for a few minutes!” My voice was in an upper register.
“But–”
“JUST LEAVE ME ALONE FOR A FEW MINUTES.”
He left.
I cleaned up my bag. I got rid of all the onion papery bits and all the toothpicks. The act of cleaning up the mess allowed me to calm down.
This morning, he remembered nothing of his art project. He thinks I am making it all up.
I now think it is very funny. That being said, if he even looks at my Kate Spade or my Stuart Weitzman, I will wax his chest hair in his sleep. . .
