Who believes in the L’ word? No, I don’t mean Litigation or Libel or Lust or Lasciviousness or Lechery or Lingerie. I mean LOVE, obviously. I love you. How many times do we use that word, that clichéd phrase, during the course of our lives? Parent to child, child to parent, partner to partner, spouse to spouse, human to the Blind Watchmaker … But what does it really mean? Has it been so done to death over the centuries that it’s lost its definition of being an intense emotion or affection, warmth, fondness, and regard towards a person or thing?
In the case of Errant Hubby, he was more of a thing. Sorry to bring the philosopher-star of the show back into the limelight, but – Well. There you are. But. As Humpty Dumpty said to Alice, I tried to turn the handle but – And left it there. As so many things in life are left. With a big, gaping gap.
That’s what happens when the ‘L’ word or phrase loses its meaning. There’s no conclusion, no completed phrase, no fulfilled vows, no till death us do part. There should also be a but there. Everything is preceded and followed by an inconclusive but when you overhear the kind of conversation that I heard, before the proverbial beginning of the end. Oh – sorry, didn’t I tell you about that? Please bear with me.
How does one carry on as though today were no different from any other day, before one overheard a certain life-changing phone call? A phone call that a certain blue-eyed, white-haired, scary philosopher made to a certain mate of his, intent on showing off his male prowess, his conquest, wanting to bring a certain other woman along for a clandestine weekend … and all the time believing that poor unsuspecting wifey couldn’t hear a thing?
Okay, so let’s do away with the stuffy ‘one’ pronoun, shall we? Let’s be honest, and switch over to ‘me’. The brave blogger. Or the idiot blogger, depending on your viewpoint. So away we go! No cutting politics or wise intercourse on climate change here, I’m afraid. Just the ‘L’ word. Apologies in advance.
The trouble with my philosopher-husband is that he’s slightly deaf in one ear, having recently joined membership of the Retirement Club, not that the Villainess appears to have a problem with that. And, alas, his muddled philosophical genes didn’t possess the common sense to work out that making a phone call to his mate while wifey was snuggled up on the living room sofa next door, innocuously making notes on her latest novel and having no clue about the meteor that was about to hit her world, was a pretty bloody stupid thing to do. Regardless of said door being closed.
But oh, did she hear! And oh, did she see! (While he was in the loo, to be specific.) The text messages, the ‘L’ word done to death! The discovery of all those slushy, gushy outpourings that sounded like they’d been written by a hormonal high-schooler. And no, she can’t be blamed for snooping; after all, she had to make sure that what she’d heard wasn’t just male chauvinist banter, right? Because let’s face it, he did so cherish his sexist jokes.
But the ‘L’ word …! He’d always so scorned the use of that word! I love you? What the fuck does that mean? he used to challenge her in their passionate beginnings. But – she attempted, only to fill in the gap with a withering laugh, and then cower away, until she dutifully stopped blaspheming. So the ‘L’ word was thereafter banned. But move forward 21 years, and hey bingo! – suddenly there’s a whole host of other, even gushier ‘L’ synonyms being cyber-wafted in the direction of the eager Villainess – sweetheart, my sweet, my love – all endearments that were a foreign language to him, once upon a time. In OUR time. And now…?
The horror! The horror!
But all is not lost. I still have faith. I can implore the Blind Watchmaker to keep me away from the heart of darkness. To fill in the terrifying gaps, the hiatus in love, conclude the threatening dash with a satisfying clause.
Except there’s a problem. The Blind Watchmaker isn’t only blind; he’s also deaf. And he isn’t even a watchmaker.
Perhaps my next blog should be about phenomenology and existentialism.
Or how I hired a hitman to dispose of –