The mother of kerfuffles
When Ludwig van Beethoven was born in Germany in 1770, I wonder how many people would have predicted he would grow up to be one of the most famous composers the world has known.
I wonder, too, how many people would have predicted that one day he would cause a kerfuffle in my house?
Not just a garden-variety kerfuffle either. I call it the mother of all kerfuffles. MORE ...
When marriage reaches boiling point
There is no diplomatic way to say this. My wife frowns at me for allowing our automatic kettle to do its job.
"The kettle is boiling," Katherine announced the other night during another television commercial break.
"Don't worry," I said in soothing tones. "It's an AUTOMATIC kettle so my bet is it will turn itself off." MORE ...
Getting crabby with a claw hammer
Next time my wife Katherine accuses me of never preparing food for her when she was pregnant, I will remind her how I put my life and handyman skills on the line by cooking her mangrove crabs.
So, OK, I did not cook for her a lot. I admit it.
But it was more than seven years ago, for goodness sake, and my cooking skills were not all that good. Especially when it came to pizza. MORE ...
A glove letter to my homecoming wife, stuck by magnets to the fridge door
Welcome back Katherine,
Before you ask, I can explain why the fridge is now full of stubbies of beer when no doubt you half-expected it to be still full of all the healthy green things you left in it.
I know I promised to take good nutritional care of our six-year-old Jack while you were away this week. Once again.
But, well, something else came up that prevented this. Once again. MORE ...
A sauce of marital discontent
Some people don't believe in God. Others don't believe in George W. Bush or John W. Howard. My wife Katherine doesn't believe in those pasta sauces that come in jars.
You might know the ones - just add meat and pasta, sprinkle with parmesan cheese you can buy already grated, and, Il vostro zio del Bob*, dinner is served. MORE ...
Letter on the fridge to my wife
Dear Katherine,
Welcome home. I have left you some cold, green soup in the fridge. Actually, it is the same soup you left for me when you left a week ago, though I suspect it is even greener and nicer now.
I hope you enjoyed your time away in New Zealand.
I am happy to report that in your absence I have managed to keep the house roughly in order, our four-year-old son Jack happy and our two-year-old cat, Vana, well. MORE ...
Dress sense: like father, like son
A female friend, Joanna, asked the other day how proficient our four-year-old Jack was at getting himself dressed.
"Very good, actually," my wife Katherine said.
"But colour co-ordination isn't his strong suit," I added innocently. MORE ...
Even a stud-muffin has his standards
You'd think that after more than five years of marriage my wife Katherine would accept that I just don't want to do it. Anything but THAT.
"But you said you would," she said the other day.
"No, I didn't! When did I say I would?" I said.
"Before we were married," Katherine said. MORE ...
Merry Fishmas
(another letter on the fridge to my wife)
Dear Katherine,
Welcome back from your two-week business trip. I bet you got a great big surprise when you arrived home and found that lovely pink plastic Christmas tree in the lounge.
Yes, I know it is up early. But I am just following the lead of department stores who all seem to put up their decorations in November. MORE ...
I am an empty shell of a guy
My wife Katherine really picked her time to drop a HUGE accusation on me. She choose our fifth wedding anniversary! MORE ...
No place like home among the gumboots
I came to grips long ago with the fact that my wife Katherine is taller than me. Heck, it is no big deal. A lot of the people in my life are taller than me: workmates, friends, my bank manager, and Sneezy, Sleepy, Happy and Doc in my stage debut in primary school. Katherine, I must add, is not that much taller than me. In fact, we discovered recently that we take the same size in gum boots. MORE ...
My snoring: Things that go ahh in the night
My wife calls them figments of my imagination. I call them badges of honour. They are the black, blue and purple marks up and down my right ribcage - the price all married men must pay for allegedly snoring. MORE ...
Tropical island nightmare: Rats, we’re not alone
If you knew you were going to be stranded on an isolated, tropical island, what would you take with you? MORE ...
Valentine's Day: Mr 13 per cent longs for love
Hey, have you seen any icy-cool, super-intelligent women with big, pointy ears around? I only ask this because I have been surfing the Internet for Valentine’s Day sites. MORE ...
NB: I called this site Dunno because I kept drawing a blank when I had to put a name to it
Australian writer John Martin's funny takes on Married Life
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