Friday, 11 March 2016

Homicidal wife or tight trousers? You decide

‘Are you trying to kill me?' I screamed, rubbing the back of my head and glaring at Mrs Jones.

'What are you going on about?' she said, while nonchalantly opening the front-seat passenger door of our Toyota RAV.

Until this point, it had been a typical Friday morning: a 30-minute, high-intensity workout on my static exercise bicycle in our garage, the exertion of which – according to Mrs Jones – sounds like I’m buggering a pig, particularly one with a tight, serrated arsehole; a shower and shave while belting out a tuneless rendition of Mr Tambourine Man; slipping into my favourite black Wranglers, skin tight so as to achieve an agreeably warm hold on my nether regions while allowing me to maintain the delusion that my compressed 57-year-old butt could attract female attention; and then it was off to Tesco supermarket to complete the weekly shop.

Grocery mission accomplished, we exited through the automatic doors and into the carpark. I’m proud of our new car. So while Mrs Jones pushed the supermarket trolley containing eight hefty bags of shopping, I played around with my fob-key, one press for unlock and a second to automatically raise the hatch-back door, both operations delivered from a distance of 30 yards, no less - I do hope somebody was watching. When we reached the rear of the car, being a gentleman with traditional values, I offered to take on the job of loading the car boot (trunk).

The luggage space is a deep one on a Toyota RAV so it required a 90-degree bend to push the heaviest bag into the far corner of the recess. While in this vulnerable, submissive position (with pouting buttocks straining to greet fellow shoppers and torso immersed in the depths of the boot) I heard a whirring noise; someone had pressed the key fob and the hatch-back door had started to close. Images pushed into my mind of being guillotined at the waist, with my severed legs twitching on the floor like a scene from some gruesome horror movie. I sharply retreated from the bowels of the boot only to strike my head on the descending door.


So who was responsible for my near-death experience? Despite my wife's protestations, I still harbour my suspicions. Two electronic key fobs lurked in the vicinity of the car that morning, one in Mrs Jones’ possession and the other safely ensconced in the front pocket of my tackle-hugging Wranglers.

I’m off now to check whether she’s bumped up the value of my life-assurance policy.