THURSDAY

It was Thursday, day of Thor, hammer of the gods and general show off. It was the third day of the domestic dispute with she who shall remain nameless. The day after two sleepless nights sleeping solo, waking tired after frustrating dreams of nubile nymphets and, seemingly, a lot of running around. Freud would have enjoyed all this.

The non-appearance of breakfast and lunch, and dare I say diner too (the day before), which never have appeared magically as they have in some marriages, prompted me to quickly shower and walk, yes walk as I have no car thanks to a vindictive former spouse, to the Indian eatery some 15 hot minutes away, and have breakfast.

“Where's aka” (sister) the waitress asked. I wanted to tell her, but only muttered not here, then added (soto voce) and not likely to be in the near future either. I ordered my usual masala dosa and my not so usual sweet lassi. Perhaps there was a tad rebelliousness oozing out with that Lassi. Perhaps I was saying yes, I know that I usually order coffee or masala tea, but I am on my own and I will order what I like, hence sweet lassi, and contemplated what to do about lunch.

The weather was way too hot to consider another jaunt out at lunchtime, so I entertained the idea of buying the raw ingredients, and cooking for myself. It would be no real hardship as I have done that so many times before, and a sheer joy after the tasteless instant noodles I ended up throwing out the day before.

O.K. if you really must know. If the private details of my marriage are really that interesting to you who know me little, if at all. The altercation was, as is the case more often than not, nothing, a trifle without the sweetness, jelly, custard and cream. But it led to my first sleepless night, sleeping alone, the first day of being sent to Coventry or the Malaysian equivalent,  and a day of barely any food (there will be wives smiling great big smiles right about now, having read this). Any one of these petty annoyances would have been grounds for further strife, but all three, in my tiny male mind, signalled an all out war.

Lysistrata and those bloody ancient Greek wives have much to answer for. Several weeks of an entirely different kind of starvation was beginning to take its toll hence, I guess, the fruity dreams and the longer gazes at be-shorted legs of by-passing Chinese women (of which there are plenty in Malaysia).

It is difficult to describe to anyone who has not been married to a Chinese Malaysian wife, what differences there might be cross culturally between a white Anglo-Saxon male and a Chinese Malaysia woman. It has been muted that the Chinese are the Jews of Asia, but that is performing a grave disservice to all peoples of Yiddish ancestry.  No other race has the sheer, unadulterated zest, zeal and undying love for money as the Malaysian Chinese have.

That was where it all had started, two sleepless nights and several celibate days ago, an argument over money, not the first and probably not the last. The cultural differences being, basically, that my Chinese wife is very, very careful with money (a trait she has inherited from her shopkeeper parents), while I have never been burdened with having enough to worry about!

I trudged to Giant (Tescos but seedier), bought the necessary accoutrements for a lamb curry, and walked back home a little heavier and dripping with sweat from unaccustomed exercise. On arrival I mooched to the kitchen, to place plastic bags full of goodies onto our pretentious glass kitchen table and, behold, there was a bowl of freshly made pasta butterflies, and a second bowl of creamy sauce. All my anger and disappointment simply melted away. Ahhhhh, she did care after all. Stupid man!! I was saved the trouble of food preparation and cooking. Saved the potato peeling, saved the constant checking to see if my dry curry was too dry, and burning.

I put the lamb in the freezer for another day. Well, you never know!