There is such a thing as ‘too much of a thing’, particularly when the ‘too much’ part that is ‘the thing’ involves a Mark strutting around in the house in a mood that would curdle milk in a radius of five miles. If you’ve seen the Alien films, that motion tracker they pull out which blips and then shows a white dot on its screen, that’s the stress level of all this.
Fortunately, this time his ire isn’t directed at me. Not as such, directly. It’s just that me working in London has meant quite big changes in the order of our lives. The division of labour in the house has become very skewed to his disadvantage. I leave home early in the morning, and rarely come home before six. Everything about the house has fallen to him. When we lie there talking at night, he says it’s okay with him, but clearly it isn’t.
He has to cook every day. He has to deal with the laundry. He has to tidy the house. He has to walk the dogs. He knows he can ask me, but he just goes and does it without asking, because it has to be done. And then there’s his own school work, and his own down-time. I’m afraid that we’re going to have to sit down and have a long talk, and change things. Clearly things can’t go on like this.
I can’t have him walking around like a thundercloud in the house, even if he’s not shouting at me about things. I won’t, of course, be able to cut the hours I’m gone. And I likely will be just as bone tired when I come home. But obviously, all this means bigger changes than we thought, and it’s affecting things, and it’s better to deal with those things and not allow them to fester. This isn’t fair to him, is it? Not at all.