A tribute to Her. She who must be ignored. The Obergruppenfuhrer (Domestic). My little spitting cobra (thanks Basil). The missus. The ball & chain. The Doris. Etcetera.
She's put up with a lot, poor lass. (Okay, being Welsh was always a disadvantage). But she's had to endure sorry enjoy being with me for 14 years, 6 of those being legally binding.
Not once has she casually enquired the whereabouts of the keys to the gun cabinet, even after seeing my death in service benefits.
She's put up with me doing various silly things, has eaten almost without complaint everything I've shot/caught and dished up (sorry about the piece of shot, but if you hadn't had seconds you'd have missed it), hasn't laughed too much when I've injured myself in stupid ways, and only complains when my Early Morning Jalfrezi Sourced Trumpet Solo wakes the baby. Well, actually, there a few more complaints or moments when the look of bemused scorn/incomprehension turn to full-on scary, but if I put too many examples I may be found in the early hours kipping on the garden furniture with mysterious groin trauma.
So, Happy Birthday Boss.
I'm even baking a cake (YES I AM CONFIDENT IN MY MASCULINITY, I JUST LIKE WEARING A NICE PINNY AT TIMES).
Now can I go shooting? Or out on my (repaired since last stupid crash) bike? Pretty please? No, that's OK, I like stripping paint.