The WB Chronicles: Court Battle

Your Honour, we were students, not in the money
for a wedding, anticipated trouble, so my then-honey
and I kept our nuptials secret from our parents,
only informed them a good while after the events.
By then mine had bought a flat for me alone,
or so they thought. Its value soared like a drone,
so we got our next house, and the next. Twenty years later
we’ve had many more donations from the pater…

Mr Judge Sir I protest…
This woman thinks she’s the best,
but she kicked me out less than three years after she found out
that I’d had moments of joy with another. But I called her out,
‘cos it was her lack of uncritical admiration
and the general sense of deprivation
that I could not rule with absolute decree
which drove me to the arms of Gina, Becky, Lee.
She expected me to be apologetic – more like apoplectic
wouldn’t cook or do my laundry while I was texting
the latest mistress I was sexting.
Now I have to pay a massive rent to get a house of similar size –
so what if the kids only spend 6 days here a month – in their eyes
it’s got to be attractive, have room to fit 88 inch TV and Playstation,
while she complains of boiler repairs, lording it in the old location.
That’s the state of our nation.

His salary is high, his pension secure,
why do we have to drown in manure,
when it’s clear as day, eat or pray, doom and gloom,
the boys are mainly spending time in my room?
I feed and clothe them, know all the ins and outs of school…

Your Honour, it’s time to overrule. Food bills are such a drag
why bring up the subject? I don’t mean to brag
but the science the boys get from me
are worth 3 of your books, theatre or history.
Just admit it, you’ll never be as good
as my mother tells me I am. That’s understood.
They’re boys, they need a father to set an example or else
they’ll end up as unhappy as I was
when she made me pick them up from school while she was travelling.
All the while my social life was unravelling,
couldn’t go out for beers more than twice a week.
I’ll teach them to be manly not so weak.
I spend as much on my children as she does, or does she believe
that holidays chasing solar eclipses come through charity relief?
Cinema tickets, theme parks all cost money,
so curb your spending on socks, shoes and school trips, honey!

And if you don’t know, now you know…

With apologies to Lin-Manuel Miranda and his Cabinet Battle in Hamilton, which inspired this.

The WB Chronicles: Translation Mishaps, or It All Started with Lipstick

Translation is the art of failure. (Umberto Eco)

Photo by Alex Blăjan on Unsplash
  1. He said: ‘I don’t like make-up on a woman. I want to be able to kiss her lips without the taste of lipstick getting in the way… yuck!’

I heard: ‘I don’t want you to wear lipstick. I love you so much that I cannot stop myself kissing you at any time of day or night.’ 

Translation error: I stopped wearing lipstick. And became invisible.

Conclusion: Never trust a man who tells you what you should look like.

2. ‘You are not like other women. You may not be as beautiful or as blonde as the women I am usually attracted to, but you are very special. You really know how to look after a man.’

I heard: ‘You have a winning personality. You are a mature woman who knows what she wants, not a whining young girl.’

Missed translation: This woman seems low maintenance and reminds me of my mother but with lots of sex. Let me just slip in that comparison, so that she remains forever grateful that I even noticed her. Besides, driving a thin wedge into female solidarity makes me feel so good!

3. ‘I cannot wait to have children. That will make us really complete. I’m going to be a much better father than mine ever was.’

I heard: ‘I will leave you if you don’t give me children. But once I have them I’ll grow up, become mature and be a good Dad, because see how critical I am of my own father?’

Translation error: Delighted to become a father as long as someone else does all the work and thinking and planning, and they don’t have a negative impact on my nice lifestyle. Oh, and it’s nice to boast about good results at school, they’ve obviously inherited my intelligence.

4. ‘Whatever you want, darling.’ (when being asked to help make a decision about holidays, major household purchases – other than a car, taking a job, quitting a job, choosing childcare options, choosing schools etc.)

I heard: ‘I trust you completely to make a wise decision.’

Translation error: This does not restrict my rights to disparage, mock, quibble about, complain about or criticise those decisions. Post-factum, of course. 

5. ‘I can’t help this. It’s the testosterone. Science has proven that men and women are different.’

‘I always warned you that I wasn’t a romantic. I don’t believe in Valentine’s Day/ weekly dates/ shared hobbies/ couples therapy.’

‘Is it really necessary to do the laundry/ change the oil filter/ put up those tiles/ XXX now?’

Translation: I can’t be bothered. Can’t be bothered. Bother!

 

 

 

Let the WB Chronicles Begin!

The greatest dilemma of separation has to do with vocabulary.

‘Stop calling him “your husband” – he isn’t that anymore!’ chides my hairdresser.

‘Not-quite-ex-yet-officially doesn’t have a snappy ring to it, does it?’ complains a friend.

‘My children’s father is a bit of a mouthful…’, I admit quietly to myself.

‘Why don’t you use his first name?’ ask my work colleagues. That last one is easily answered: because the first name feels more intimate than giving him a quick label like ‘ex’ or ‘husband’. In front of my children I can call him ‘Baba’ (Greek for Dad), which is what they have called him all their lives. Nothing to do with me.

But what can I call this man with whom I spent 20+ years of my life?

Well, don’t laugh, but I think the best solution might be: WB. Not for Warner Brothers, or his initials. But for ‘Wet Blanket’. Hear me out: I am not being unnecessarily cruel or name-calling. I am simply describing the effect he has had on me for the last ten years or so, possibly longer.

All the things he had once claimed to love about me began to irritate him. How ‘educated’ and ‘cultured’ I was compared to him, how opinionated, how I could debate with him for hours about the state of the world, how vivacious and loud and full of laughter I was when out with friends, what a social butterfly at times, what a recluse at other times, my reading, my book acquisition, even my love of elephants no longer seemed lovable but annoying. I had to be corrected (often in public), put in my place, hidden away from work colleagues for fear of being an embarrassment. All my attributes which did not put him in first place (even ahead of the children) had to be complained about until I made efforts to change them. Meanwhile, woe betide I try to change anything about himself – ‘I never pretended to be anything I was not, you knew whom you married’.

Yes, more fool I! I thought people grew and developed all life long. I didn’t exactly want to change him, I had no illusions about some of his less stellar qualities, but I was the incurable optimist, hopeful that life, family, children and growing older would mature him and reduce some of that selfishness. After all, I was a self-centred teenager myself once and I’ve grown so much less selfish since having children.

So yes, I suppose we were each other’s mutual wet blankets. He dampened my enthusiasm, intellect and friendliness. Meanwhile, I acted as a wet blanket on his selfishness, becoming quite the nag. Whenever I accused him of it, he would reply: ‘Why don’t you become more selfish too? Stop saying you are doing so much for the family!’

The Three Witches from the Orson Welles’ vision of Macbeth, which scared me to death when I was a child.

Partly based on the thoughts I had while reviewing Meena Kandasamy yesterday and partly because I work things out emotionally so much better when I fictionalise things in writing, I intend to embark upon a series of vignettes, poems, flash fiction, rap battles and who knows what else, loosely assembled under the title ‘The WB Chronicles’. I also will attempt a longer (perhaps radio?) play based upon the Three Witches in Macbeth, except they will be three men having their midlife crises, meeting in the pub to complain about the unfairness in their lives.

When shall we three meet again?
To watch FA Cup Final or Champions’ League?
When we’re done with bathtime fatigue
And can be Monarchs of the Glen…

I haven’t quite figured out the details, but one could be whingeing about how his wife wants to take half his money after the divorce, another could be protesting at being accused of sexual harassment at work, and the third could be complaining about the expectations his much younger girlfriend has of him. Meanwhile, in the background, there could be some kind of Greek chorus bringing in alternative points of view (especially with the dryness of legal documents). It would be a comedy, because how are we to survive if we cannot laugh at the lemons in our lives!