The GF and I  had an argument this week. I’ve seen two shows this week. On the one hand  Mark Thomas at The Soho Theatre on Dean Street in a one man show about his singular  campaign against the international arms trade.   And a few days later, today,  I saw my very first musical Daddy Cool. The Story of Boney M featuring English stars Michelle Collins, Javine and Harvey. Two shows, two opposing sides of the cultural spectrum. .

But as we came home after the Boney M show, the GF had a go at me and I can’t think what it was really about.  It came from nowhere and it happened in the kitchen.  As we arrived home at 11pm the GF decided it was time to put the gloves  on to fulfill her
burning desire to  wash up.  We don’t panic about washing up. There’s a dish washing machine that does the washing. But this is where it started. The dishwasher hadn’t been emptied. Emptying the dishwasher was the introduction to argument. Structured but noisy. Later on I noticed that a glass had cracked – something she didn’t mention. Then it was time to wash up. 11.15pm. 11.15pm!

The person whose hands are diving into the sink for cups like gannets for fish in the sea
holds the moral high ground.  “hey-I’m-working-here”. Whereas the non dish washer  – that’ll be me  –  must be guilty because he is clearly NOT working on something.

The kitchen sink also allows the disgruntled washer to avoid all eye contact  so they can get on withthe task of working themselves up  into a lather.  No doubt water will splash and it’ll  be need to bee wiped down. And once wiped there’ll be scrubbing.  And to join in the symphony there’ll be the sound of knives and forks that could punctuate the argument. A perfect cacophony. I, on the other hand, poured myself a glass of wine. Nice.  She stormed into the front room in a hail of words that flew around like dysfunctional fireworks and laid spent all over the kitchen floor and in the hallway.

I realised that it had nothing to do with me and that my getting angry at her getting angry was no use to no-one.  I hate going to bed on an argument. It’s an internal rule not to do this.  We had a great night out and within two minutes of entering our apartment an argument. I took  another gulp of wine  – I was gulping not sipping – and drank the quiet kitchen.  I wanted  to be wound up at the selfishness of it.  I pour another glass,  look at the moon and blow bouquets of smoke into the night sky by the back porch.. She peeps her head around the kitchen door. “I’m sorry” she says. “I’m over tired” she says and took off to bed. Arguments are like shooting stars. They burn bright and then   burn out. I flicked my cigarette took myself off to bed and actually dream of having an argument with my GF.