Second Helpings

Waste of Breath

I'm not a big television watcher, partly though choice and partly because my other half has complete control of the remote and never leaves his armchair of an evening. There are a few things we watch together, but his obsession with sport means I spend a lot of time elsewhere or doing other things.

I recently discovered a programme on BBC called QI. It's a sort of comedy quiz show, where the questions are very off the wall and the panel of celebrity contestants extremely witty. I've always liked Stephen Fry, the question master, so all in all it's right up my street. Hubby's not too keen, but condescends to allow me to watch it, although he frequently disappears into the kitchen to make his model railway engines.

Last week when my sis was here and we were watching the programme I happened to mention to her that in the previous episode it was revealed hippopotamii can't actually swim, which was news to me. Strange how when hubby is sitting right next to me he rarely hears what I say first time round, but when he's in the kitchen he can pick up on my every word if I'm involved in a conversation with someone else.

'Don't be so stupid. Of course they can,' assaulted our ears from the kitchen, swiftly followed by the arrival of Mr Right himself.

'I'm only quoting what was on the programme,' I say in self defence.

'I have a video of them swimming at St Louis zoo. I can prove it if you like.'

Not wanting to encourage him or enter into heavy debates, sis and I decided to escape upstairs and leave him to his precious football.

Much later, encouraged by alcohol, sis and I decided to visit Wikipedia and research the hippopotamus. Sure enough, it confirmed that adult hippo's don't swim, but propel themselves from the bottom of deep water and only surface to breathe. Feeling brave I printed the evidence and came down to give it to hubby.

'Have you got nothing better to do?' He asks from his seat in front of the television. 'You sad people.'

If I keep biting my tongue at this rate I'll sever it completely. Not a bad idea some might say.

Later in the week, long after sis has departed for home and out of nowhere I'm confronted by hubby's conviction that he is correct on the hippo front yet again.

'I'll find the video footage and prove it,' he declares.

I tell him in the great scheme of things it's hardly of any importance and concerns about geriatric parents, homeless sons and tax demands are a little higher on my list of priorities.

He humphs. 'Just because you like Stephen Fry and he says it's true, you believe it. You never believe anything I say.'

Oh dear. It seems even television personalities are subject to his massive jealous streak and I'll have to be careful who I laugh at or admit to liking.

The phrase 'I didn't realise when I married Mr Right, his first name was Always,' springs to mind, but sadly in my case I definitely married Mr Wrong in more ways than one.

I'd contemplate escape, but lately I think I'm starting to resemble a hippopotamus myself. But at least I can swim.