It’s not healthy to keep things inside.

My lovely wife (i.e., ‘The Boss’) and I celebrated an anniversary recently. No, no, don’t applaud – you’ll jinx us. People tend to stare aghast upon this woman’s suffering and ask how long we’ve been married, and I usually respond with something flippant like, “Eleven happy years. That’s not bad out of seventeen really, huh?”

And that’s the amazing thing. Despite being born with a severe deformity - not a trace of a sense of humour, poor thing – The Boss has managed to bear such gentle barbs with amazing good grace. For my part I’ve learned to deliver them with a cheesy grin so she can tell I’m kidding. Though to be honest I’m not a very attractive smiler. Not much of a platform to work from, of course. The Minister for War and Finance, on the other hand, has made an art form of the raised eyebrow. She manages to convey at once a sense of weary resignation and simultaneous alarm.

And that’s the way we operate. I say something that I really shouldn’t simply because it amuses me, and The Boss only hits where the bruises don’t show. It’s an M.O. that was set up in the very early days before we were even seriously courting. When we were shiny and new Queen’s front-man died, and being a bit of a fan my dearest was naturally quite upset. Seeking to apply a salve to her pain, I said something comforting like, “It’s okay, honey. Freddie’s a good poof now.” Well she did stop crying, and I learned that she has a temper as terrible as her throwing arm.

I’d like to point out here that a lot of what exits my mouth is not necessarily reflective of the views of management, and may have only been released for the shock value. A bit like the last Jackass movie, if they were perhaps a bit less considerate of others.

Another case in point. We were sharing some unwinding time in front of the square eye not so long ago, watching the latest Chuck Lorre slam dunk in the form of Gary Unmarried. And isn’t it good to see that likeable everyman, Jay Mohr, getting a regular gig?
Anyway in this particular episode there was some snarky back-and forth between the main characters regarding the boy child being scared of girls. Gary’s response to this was an accusation that it was the ex’s fault - she’d proven that all girls do is pretend to like you for a while and then take all of your stuff. Ever eagle eyed, I saw an opportunity for some point scoring.
Turning to the object of my affection, I said, “At least I know that will never happen to us”.
This got the ‘Awwwwwwwwwww’ cuddle that I was looking for. “Do you really mean that?” she purred.

“Sure”, I replied nonchalantly. “You hate all of my stuff.”

The biggest difference, I find, between a companionable silence and a bitter one is the temperature at which it’s delivered.

Still and all, I love her dearly; and she figures it would be a waste of time starting to train ‘a new one’ now.
Which is why on a sunny lunchtime a week or so ago, we found ourselves in quite a nice riverside restaurant, celebrating our milestone. (If you’ve been married for seventeen years, you’ll know it’s an important one. It’s a whole year since the last one and she hasn’t killed you yet.)

In light of the special day, I went out on a limb and tried something I’ve heard a lot about and wanted to have a go at; Wagyu beef. Having normally shied away due to a feeling that spending that much on meat constituted cheating in some way, I thought that if the wife is present and okays it, we’re on. Next we’ll try that theory at the Daily Planet.

When the thing arrived at the table, I must admit to being temporarily underwhelmed. For a hundred dollar steak it looked remarkably like, well, a piece of steak. (I’m not sure what I expected instead, but had a vague feeling that sparklers would be involved.) I know very little of the value went into preparation because, like any good steak, it was quite rare. Quite. Rare. Not complaining of course because that is the way I asked for it – just saying, is all.

All concerns melted away when the first bite did the same. Praise Jeebus this bovine death was not in vain. If Nine and a Half Weeks taught us nothing else – and it didn’t – it is that the taste buds, treated nicely, are a useful sex organ. If treated nicely. If Ms Basinger had chowed down on the rump of a Wagyu cow, the movie would have lasted for about nine and a half seconds, and Mickey Rourke would have returned to his old job in the Manatee breeding grounds. Leaving us the Hell alone.
Seriously, I enjoyed this thing so much I felt I should have bought it dinner first. I’ve never eaten so slowly in all my life, normally being of the opinion that to pause and draw breath is a waste of time. But then, in the way that I do, I began to over think things.

Like most people, around here the number two train to the beach normally departs twice a day. But I’d just spent a hundred bucks on a piece of steak, and it was AWESOME. But it was a hundred bucks. It was the closest food ever took me to a religious revelation. But, without wishing to labour the point too much, it was a hundred bucks. So I did the only sensible thing and, in an attempt to make the whole experience last longer, ummm, held it in.

This lasted the better part of two days, by which time I was distinctly unhealthy. Still holding to the theory that I was continuing to enjoy that wonderful cow, it was nonetheless becoming increasingly difficult to either see the telly or walk in a straight line. My sweat, of which there was now quite a lot, had an odd red wine jus taint to it. Well even Captain Kirk knew when to abandon ship, so with a heavy heart and a belly dragging along the ground, I attempted an evacuation.

This relief turned out to be easier to seek than find. Having been sent home without pay, the Peristaltic Transport Union was unwilling to go back to work just because someone was sweating and moaning. There were negotiations, thankfully, and after a mercifully short time the trains were once again running. Although the result was a little disappointing, because I’d anticipated a bright shaft of sunlight, maybe some harps and a choir to mark the occasion. Perhaps the several gallons of coffee and hundredweight of bran muesli used to bribe the P.T.U. shrouded Bessie (yes I named the steak) and prevented the deserved recognition from occurring.

Anyway despite a desire to never do so, I learned something as I recovered over the ensuing days. Something valuable. Wagyu steak is a metaphor for life. It is to be savoured and enjoyed. But when the moment is over, everything (EVERYthing) must move on. Otherwise we can’t enjoy the next serving, can we?

Also, it is simply hilarious to niggle at your wife a little bit at a time until she explodes.