female symbolLunch is over. “Put the lid on the casserole,” demands Ian, having devoured the delicious fish soup he had forced me to make. “Bacteria will get in if you leave it off.” I obey instantly: we are married, after all. Earlier he made me get up and clean the house in preparation for the potential buyers who were coming to look round. (We are having to sell because he doesn’t want to live here any more). “I’ll take the dogs out,” he announced. When I went into the hall, begging to be allowed to accompany him, he had two dog leads in his hand. I knew what that meant. I had to stay behind. There really was no choice. Maud and Harry, the two border terriers he had forced me to buy when what I really wanted was more children, fixed me with a look of withering contempt. He has turned them against me.
It was  2007 when Ian decided we would get married. I tried to resist, I really did. My independence was important to me and I had my career to think about. “I’m sorry,” he said at the time. “I know you don’t want to do this, but I need somebody to care for me in my old age and you’ll do fine.” He planned the wedding, designed and issued the invitations, booked the photographer, organised the reception, even chose the honeymoon destination – Belgium, via Eurostar, because he likes trains.
Of course I wanted to go somewhere exotic like China or India involving a long-haul flight (I’ve never been on a long-haul flight: Ian won’t let me) but of course I went along with his plans. Why? Because – I’m sorry, but I’m finding this really hard to type; my fingers are trembling on the keyboard – I was scared: although I may look like a strong, independent woman with a mind of my own, deep down I’m just a weak and pathetic little wife. Feminism? Women’s rights? That’s fine for all those bossy women who can stand up for themselves, but not for people like me. We know our place. Must dash. He’s demanding his tea.



    1. Thanks, Ian. Now here’s the interesting thing – at the side of the ‘dashboard’ when you’re editing the blog post there’s an area that allows you to choose an image to insert. And there, amazingly, was the fragrant Mrs Hulne. Now why should she pop up I wonder?

  1. I was going to say how funny this is. How I laughed out loud. How ironic it was. How it highlighted the discrepancy between a woman who has established herself as a powerhouse and would rail at being depicted as a victim but who suddenly seems to have discovered her inner frail, vulnerable, bullied self in a court room. How it showed the subtext that we should stand by our hopes and careers rather than swopping recipes and “keep your man happy” top tips. I wanted to be the first to like this and ticked the box above. But the computer wanted me to put in my name and password and they didn’t match and it kept directing me elsewhere so sod it. I’ll wait until my husband can sort it out. He’s good at that sort of thing. The bastard!

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