I love you but

 In the words of Meatloaf, “I’d do anything for love but I won’t do that.”

The Long Suffering Husband came home from golf looking very pleased with himself. 

Some people might think he took early retirement but in actual fact he became a golf pro. A golf pro in the same way that I’m a professional musician: there’s no money in it but he works hard. Not to make life too difficult for himself and being a bit of a bandit (shush, don’t tell him I said that) he joined the OAP section of the club and he has been having very good games. It’s my birthday soon so I’m sure there will be a piece of equipment I will need to make his game even better. I’ve never minded that, it’s what true love is, isn’t it? That and showing/telling each other health concerns that you’d never mention to anyone else.

However, I draw the line at yesterday’s suggestion.

“I’ve been formally asked now.”

“What?” 

I was confused because I hadn’t listened properly before. That’s also what love is. Pretending to listen to things that bore you but looking as though you are really interested.

“You know, they keep saying I’d be a really good captain.”

I could feel the panic rising in my chest. I suppose it was inevitable; a man in his middle fifties looks positively dynamic amongst a bunch of octogenarians. It shouldn’t worry me. Golf is his hobby, right? It’s not how hobbies work though. Just as I might ask him to come to occasional concert or make him eat cake he might ask me to something golf based. When that was going to golf shops or walking round a big field that was fine but becoming the captain’s wife was not high on my list of things to do before I die.

“I’ve been formally asked to be Vice Captain now. It’s very flattering,” he said.

“Yes , but you’d hate it.” I tried to persuade, “The politics of it all would spoil your hobby.”

He looked dejected. 

“I quite like the idea.”

My breathing was coming in short, ragged gasps and the world was fading at the edges and turning black. I had to say something but he continued.

“But I said no,”

I breathed again, maybe I wasn’t going to faint.

“I told them that I don’t like public speaking and so I couldn’t do it.”

That was a relief. I had imagined writing speeches appropriate for a golf club, littered with Daily Mail opinions and jokes that wouldn’t look out of place in the 1970s and sitting with him for hours until he felt comfortable enough to perform in public. I would have done that because of love.

“I just don’t think you’ve got quite the right sort of wife, either,” I told him. “It takes someone that likes organising events.”

“You are very good at that.”

“But I hate going to them.”

“There would be the Captain’s Ball. We could go anyway. It might be fun.”

That is what I won’t do for love. I am not going to the Captain’s Ball. Not as the Mrs Captain or any other kind of glamorous arm appendage. I am not buying a dress without pockets. I am not wearing heels and making small talk with people who enjoy hitting a small ball around a field. 

I am a grumpy old woman who would rather stay at home and research murder. Please don’t look at my browser history. I’m a writer not a serial killer, although the idea of a story about the wife of a golfer is coming to me. When he becomes captain she throws herself into the events, enthusatically pretending to enjoy herself, while hating every moment. She spends most evenings thinking, “I’m missing Eastenders for this!” As part of their new found lifestyle she practises her cocktail making skills, requiring him to try a new one every night. It’s very hard to taste anti-freeze in a well mixed cocktail. Is it a good use of my time to start researching golf based cocktails now?

The Hole in One - found on Pinterest