“Whatever happened to that blog of yours?”
Guido and I were in bed, eating peaches flambeé and bananas Foster. He had a strange look on his face as he lit the bananas on fire. I wondered whether the cannelloni we had eaten for dinner had been a bit much. But until my dying day I will never be able to refuse Guido’s cannelloni.
“Seriously. You used to post to that blog all the time. Loads of admirers clung to your every word. What happened?”
I spooned vanilla ice cream onto the flaming dessert. “You know how busy things have been,” I said, only a little sheepish. “If you haven’t noticed, we have two cafés to run now, and we still have not finished renovating the flat in Denmark Hill. Add to that my day job rescuing rich patrons from bad colour schemes and it is no mystery why I have been neglecting my blog. We haven’t played poker with Ted and Gary in a dog’s age, which is just as well given we have no disposable income to fork over when we lose. Why, we have been barely managing sex three times a day lately. Who has time to update a blog?”
“That’s not it,” said Guido. “You have been busy before and still updated. Something else is different.”
My heart started to pound. Was this it? Was Guido falling out of love with me? After all these years and all that mayonnaise, was our relationship ending over some stupid blog?
“I didn’t know my blog was important to you,” I said, desperately trying to suppress the quaver in my voice. “I’ll update more regularly if you would like.”
“Oh, I hated that thing. You kept leaking my recipes and our bedroom secrets to a transatlantic audience. On the other hand, you seemed to enjoy it, and as your loving husband I was willing to put up with it.”
For one I didn’t know what to say. I tried to breathe deeply as I awaited whatever was coming next, dessert long forgotten as it singed the edges of the comforter.
“Have you ever stopped to consider,” asked Guido, “that you haven’t been yourself lately?”
That sounded like a dangerous question. “Sure, we’ve been busy,” I said. “But I’m still me, and you’re still you, and we are still sharing our beautiful and frequently comedic life together.”
“I am worried about you. You have been off your meds for a while. The last time that happened you convinced yourself that you were a glamorous New Hope drag queen with two boyfriends and a stable of unruly houseboys. What’s going through your head now? Has it ever occurred to you that are not a fabulous interior decorator in London, but some underemployed schlub in the frozen wastelands of Lurkistan? That you are in no way married to a gorgeous hairy six-foot Spanish chef, but rather you are neurotic, semi-closeted and alone and will remain so for the rest of your days?”
The tears were streaming down my face, mixing into the charred bananas and melted ice cream.
“I know this is difficult to hear,” said Guido. “And believe me, it hurts me to say it. But even though your life is hardly worth living, you are better off dealing with reality than retreating into a fantasyland. Now let’s get some sleep so I can take you to the nice psychiatrist in the morning.”
“All docs is quacks,” I mumbled more to myself than anybody. But even I rocked back and forth in my Justin Bieber pajamas, I knew Guido was right, and once again was looking out for my best interests. As my sobbing subsided and I drifted off to sleep, I gave thanks to be married to the best husband in the world.