Well happy anniversary to Sir and me. Ten years and counting, and according to Sir I’ve broken records.

Well happy anniversary to Sir and me. Ten years and counting, and according to Sir I’ve broken records.

 Now over those years, and those which preceded, you would have thought that a woman as fabulous and erudite as me would have learned a few lessons when it comes to things one should and undoubtedly should not do with a spouse. But I never said I was Wonder-Woman, now did I, so slip-ups have naturally occurred.

I guess as today is the official Australian horses’ birthday, this would be a good day to start the list.

Every horse on this day turns a year older, so apparently it puts those actually born Aug. 2 at a decided disadvantage, and those born July 31 tremendously ahead.

There you have it, the sum total of my knowledge of things equine. I know they’re quite beautiful to look at, bloody terrifying to sit on, despite my darling daughters protestations to the contrary, and really that’s pretty much the size of my experience.

Sir, on the other hand, is an avid follower of the Gee-Gee variety and has from time to time encouraged me to get involved. But try as I might the whole business of horse racing bores me to heaving sobs, and I just can’t wrap my non-mathematical Swiss-cheese brain around all those numbers which one is supposed to instantly divine the meaning of and know that the number 4 in Race 3 is a sure-fire winner. Nor can I grasp the way in which one bets, be it a trifecta, an exacta, a daily double, or a triple turn with a half pike and twist, with a half nelson thrown in.

I just plain don’t get it, and with a half-hour lag between races my non-existent ADD kicks in and I’m reaching for the gum ball machine for any hope of interest.

This is Numero Uno on the list of things not to do with one’s spouse. He gets tetchy at my itchiness, and I thus become triple testy and it all threatens to end in tears. Which it does. Mine.

My first husband was a really nice bloke, but we could not under any circumstances involve ourselves in a D.Y.I. type project around the house.  So many things are subjective and his idea of ‘good enough’ was way, way above mine. Put a sanding block in my hand, and face me towards a wall sadly in need of painting, and my mind goes positively numb. I have not a clue as to what is “smooth,” and despite the fact I thought I’d got it to within an inch of being as soft as a baby’s bum, it was never good enough.

Now Sir and I, as you know, do not partake in any way shape or form in the noble art of D.Y.I. We like to call it C.T.L.M., which roughly translates to Call The Little Man. To paraphrase a rather indelicate joke, how many people does it take to change a light bulb in the Sir and Annie house? Two.

One to call the electrician, and one to stand back and exclaim “how fabulous!” Now that is taking it a wee bit far. We can change a light bulb, but not without a great deal of hrumphing and the wobbly holding of ladders. We are a danger unto ourselves, and we freely admit it.

 What else must one not ever attempt to achieve with one’s spouse? Oh I know. This is a doozy and there isn’t a woman connected with an other-half alive who would argue with me. Do not attempt to share the remote control. I freely admit I know possibly a quarter of the buttons facing me on the device – on/off, volume up and down, channel up and down, T.V. guide and the what on earth do we have on tape button, I know not what it’s called.

I have to ask Sir to set the alarm, I have to ask Sir which TV to tape – I’m telling you, I’m like a four year old. And Sir puffs himself up to pigeon-like pomposity, emits a small hrumph as if dealing with a 2-year-old, and gets me so cross-eyed with indignation that it’s frankly better for me never to pick the thing up. A situation he finds quite satisfactory, thank you.

But the one that never occurred to me happened just the other day. There it was, the British Open, the Mecca of Golf, and there appeared one Mark Calcavecchia happily playing along with his wife – his wife! – caddying for him.

Can you just imagine Sir and me achieving this feat? For a start, lugging his golf bag in my white rompers, I just know I’d last about four holes, dump the bag and tell him to carry the damned thing himself.

Then there would be “well you never listen to me anyway, use the club you were always going to use without my input”, and “what do you mean, we’ve gone the wrong way. You know I have no sense of direction, it’s your fault”.

Oh my. No. Leave the spouses to their thing, leave us to our thing, and let’s meet afterwards over a chilled glass of wine and torrid stories of our separate adventures.

Much safer. Love you, darling Sir, and here’s to many more fun years ahead.