З життя
He Told His Wife She Was Too Boring—But When She Transformed Her Life, She Found Herself Bored of Him Instead
It was nearly two years ago now, though it feels a lifetime past, that I heard words from my husband I shall never forget. He told me, quite plainly: You lead such a predictable life, I find myself bored with you. Despite what Arthur believed, I had been content with our quiet existence. Each morning began early for me, with a simple breakfast, a spot of exercise, and then Id dress for work. My first task was always to help Arthur prepare for his own day, as he left before me, and only then did I ready myself. We cooked every meal at home, and Id pack lunches for us both before heading out. On my way home, Id stop at the grocers, then cook, tidy, and see to the laundry. Wed finish the day with a film and then turn in for the night.
I was convinced there was nothing awry. Everything was as it ought to be: Arthur was cared for and well-fed, the house clean and welcoming, a sense of calm order presiding. What more could one wish for? Saturdays were reserved for a thorough cleaning, baking something tempting and hearty for supper. In the evening, we might entertain a few friends or go out together. Sundays were devoted to visiting our parents; half the day spent with mine, the other with his, helping with little chores, sharing conversation and laughter with our families.
Evenings would see us resting quietly at home. We never argued nor raised our voices. Our home was a haven of peace. And yet One day, Arthur declared he had grown bored of me. He talked for hours, listing his grievances and naming friends who relished a more spirited lifewho pursued merriment and fulfilment with abandon. He insisted our lives lacked excitement. We never even quarrel, he said, as if harmony itself were a fault. That day, he simply walked out the door.
I had been perfectly satisfied with the life we led. Yet, for Arthurs sake, I resolved to change whatever was needed. To begin, I reinvented myselfclearing my wardrobe, spending the money set aside for a cottage on a whole new collection of clothes. I cut my hair short and dyed it a daring colour. I resolved to cast off every suggestion of dullness. Then, I left my steady office job and found work arranging grand celebrations. I discovered, through this new position, a world of unusual entertainments and new faces.
A week later, Arthur returned, astonished by what he found. From that point on, I promised him, our lives would be quite different. And so it was: we hardly spent a night at home, constantly on the move, travelling, building a web of new acquaintances. Every evening found us at a club, a restaurant, a party, or another gathering. We might head out camping, take the bicycles on a lark, paddle down the river, or set off to explore another city for the weekend.
Several months swept by in this lively manner, until Arthur admitted he now longed for quiet, for peacejust to sit in, he said. He confided that he missed my home-cooked meals and the cakes I would bake, but my new life left no spare moments to stand by the stove. I had changed so completely that Arthur lost all desire for my company.
Another week passed before he told me he could not keep up such a busy pace, that he wished to return to those old waysthe quiet evenings, the comfort of home, the regular visits to our parents, and the warmth of fresh, homemade fare, not meals fetched and reheated from some takeaway.
Only, by then, I found I no longer cared for it. I had tried so hard to grow into the careful routine of adult life, but now I had no wish to turn back. This new way suited me well, perhaps even more than the old, but I could not go back. When Arthur asked to return to old comforts, the result was a dreadful row: crockery smashed, neighbours roused and calling the local constable. Arthur packed his things and went to stay with his mother, quite convinced I would quickly fall back into familiar ways. But enough was enough. We are not characters in some tale that can change at anothers whim. When Arthur returns, he will find divorce papers upon the table, and a note to say that I am the one who has quite lost interest nowI simply cannot live with him any longer.
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The Nuisance Next Door “Keep your hands off my crystal glasses!” shouted the former friend. “Mind your own eyes! You think I don’t see who you’re ogling?” “So you’re jealous, are you?” Tamara Barrington was taken aback. “Just look who you’re after! I know what I’m getting you for Christmas—a lip-zipping machine!” “Why not keep it for yourself?” retorted Lynda, undeterred. “Or have you already worn yours out? You think I don’t notice?” Old Mrs. Tamara swung her legs off the creaky bed and walked over to her home icon shelf to read her morning prayer. Not that she was especially religious—she believed there was something out there running things, but who exactly remained a mystery. This all-powerful force went by many names: the universe, fate, and, of course, the Good Lord—a kindly old gent with a white beard and halo, sitting on his cloud and worrying about folks down on Earth. Besides, Mrs. Barrington was long past life’s halfway mark and edging near seventy. At that age, it was best not to quarrel with the Almighty: If He didn’t exist, believers lost nothing. If He did, non-believers lost everything. At the end of her morning devotions, Tamara added a few words of her own. Ritual, done. Soul at peace. She could start her new day. In Tamara Barrington’s life there were two main troubles. Not, as you might think, the usual English gripes of weather and taxes—those were old hat! Her nightmares were her neighbour, Lynda, and her own grandchildren. The grandchildren were predictable: today’s kids, not an ounce of effort in them. But they had parents to deal with them—let them take that on! Lynda, however, was a classic nerve-shredder of a neighbour! Only in the movies do the spats between national treasures like Dame Judi Dench and Maggie Smith seem sweet and charming. In real life, it’s nowhere near so cute—especially when the nitpicking is personal and persistent. To make matters more colourful, Mrs. Tamara had a chum with the nickname “Pete the Moped.” In full, it was Peter Ephraim Cosgrove—the surname a solid English sort! The origin of his nickname was obvious: In his youth, Pete Cosgrove—such a ring to it, eh?—loved zipping around on his scooter. Or as his mates called it, his “mopette.” In time, the battered moped gathered dust in the shed, but the nickname stuck like only village monikers can. In their younger days, they were family friends: Pete and his wife Nina with Tamara and her late husband. Now both of their spouses were resting peacefully in the village cemetery. So Tamara and Pete, whose friendship went back to school days, carried on together by habit—he was a true, loyal friend. Back in school, their trio—her, Pete, and Lynda—had pulled off friendship splendidly. Real, pure camaraderie—no teenage flirting involved. They always moved as a trio: Their strapping gentleman between two smartly dressed ladies, each on his arm. Like one of those double-handled English tea cups—built not to be dropped! As the years went by, the friendships changed. First came a chill from Lynda, then outright spite. It was as if Lynda had been swapped for someone else—a different script altogether! This switch came after her husband passed away; before that, things had been tolerable. It’s no surprise: time sharpens certain traits. The thrifty turn stingy. Chatty types grow unbearable. And envy—well, it will tear you to pieces. And there was plenty to envy! First, despite her years, Tamara stayed trim and neat, while Lynda had become rather dumpy—a common by-product of time. Tamara always cut a better figure. Second, their old friend Pete now lavished more attention on lively Tamara. They whispered and laughed over private jokes, their silvery heads nearly touching. With Lynda, conversation was limited to short, dry remarks. And Pete visited Tamara far more often, while Lynda had to beg for his company. Perhaps Lynda wasn’t as clever as infuriating Tamara, nor as quick with a joke—Pete had always loved a good laugh. Ah, there’s a fine old English word—”yakking”—which would fit what Lynda did these days: picking fights over every little thing. First, she complained Tamara’s loo was in the wrong spot and stank! “Your privy stinks up the whole place!” grumbled Lynda. “Rubbish! It’s been there for ages—you only just noticed?” Tamara riposted. “Oh yes! And your eye implants were on the NHS! Nothing good comes free, you know!” “Keep your nose out of my cataracts!” shot back Lynda. “Watch who you’re giving the side-eye!” And so it went, again and again. Pete even suggested filling in the old outside toilet and setting one up inside. Tamara’s children pooled money to sort out an indoor loo for their mum. Pete himself helped fill in the old pit—problem solved. Lynda, find something new to complain about! She did: Now she accused Tamara’s grandkids of stealing pears from her tree, whose branches hung well into Tamara’s plot. “They thought it was ours,” Tamara tried to explain, doubting the kids took any—she hadn’t seen any missing. “Besides, your chickens are always scratching round in my veg patch!” “A chicken is a simple creature! Either a broiler or a layer!” Lynda retorted. “And you ought to be raising your grandkids right, not giggling with old men all day!” On it went: the pears, the tree branches, the chickens, and always some new row to pick. In the end, Pete suggested cutting back the offending branches—after all, they were on Tamara’s side of the fence. Under his watchful eye, Lynda kept silent for once. Once that was sorted, Tamara took exception to Lynda’s new breed of chickens, which now truly did dig up her beds. She politely asked Lynda to keep them fenced in. Lynda only smirked: “Sweep away for all I care—see what you can do!” Tamara would never dream of catching a chicken and roasting it to prove a point—she was too soft-hearted for a risky experiment. Instead, clever Pete suggested an idea from the internet: quietly scatter eggs in the beds at night, and collect them next morning. It worked! Lynda, seeing Tamara returning with a full bowl of eggs, was flabbergasted—and her chickens never trespassed again. Couldn’t they just make peace now? Not likely! Now it was the smoke and smell from Tamara’s summer kitchen that bothered Lynda. “Yesterday I didn’t mind it, but today I do! And maybe I’m vegetarian! Haven’t you heard Parliament passed a law about barbecue smoke?” “Where do you even see a barbecue, Lynda?” Tamara tried reasoning. “You might want to wipe your glasses once in a while!” Always patient, Tamara finally lost her cool. Lynda had become utterly impossible—some words just suit her! “Maybe she ought to be sent off for experiments,” Tamara sighed to Pete over tea. “She’s eating me alive!” Weary and thin from the daily stress, Tamara thought she might waste away—but Pete encouraged her to hang in there. One bright morning, Tamara heard a familiar song: “Tammy, Tammy, come out from your cottage!” Outside, Pete stood proudly beside his newly repaired moped. “Why was I so glum before?” he proclaimed. “It’s because my moped was down! Now climb on, darling, let’s relive our youth!” Tamara hopped on. After all, Parliament had officially cancelled old age: everyone was now an active pensioner at sixty-five! She rode off into her new life—literally and figuratively. Before long, Tamara became Mrs. Cosgrove—Pete proposed, and the puzzle was complete. She left her worries (and her cantankerous neighbour) behind and moved in with her new husband. Lynda remained a solitary, grumpy woman—who, with no one left to argue with, turned all her bitterness inwards. But you can bet she found new things to envy. So hold tight, Tamara, and maybe don’t step outside too soon! Village life—it’s a real song, isn’t it? What did you expect? All that fuss over a loo, for nothing…
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