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| Tim Dowling: how to be a model husband | |
| (about 3 hours later) | |
| It is a few days after Christmas, 1989. I am living in New York, working in a dead-end job. It's worse than that; I'm employed by the production department of a failing magazine. I probably won't even have my dead-end job for much longer. | It is a few days after Christmas, 1989. I am living in New York, working in a dead-end job. It's worse than that; I'm employed by the production department of a failing magazine. I probably won't even have my dead-end job for much longer. |
| It's cold, and the city has an air of spent goodwill: there are already Christmas trees lying on the pavement. I drop by the apartment of some friends, two girls who share a grand duplex in the West Village. I know they have people visiting, English people. But when I get there my friend Pat answers the door. He gives me to understand that the two roommates are in the basement having a protracted disagreement. They argue a lot, those two, and have a tendency towards high drama. | It's cold, and the city has an air of spent goodwill: there are already Christmas trees lying on the pavement. I drop by the apartment of some friends, two girls who share a grand duplex in the West Village. I know they have people visiting, English people. But when I get there my friend Pat answers the door. He gives me to understand that the two roommates are in the basement having a protracted disagreement. They argue a lot, those two, and have a tendency towards high drama. |
| I first see the English girl as she comes up from downstairs, where she has been attempting to broker some sort of truce and salvage the evening. Her short hair, charged with static, is riding up on itself at the back. She walks into the room, pauses to light a cigarette, and then looks at me and Pat. | I first see the English girl as she comes up from downstairs, where she has been attempting to broker some sort of truce and salvage the evening. Her short hair, charged with static, is riding up on itself at the back. She walks into the room, pauses to light a cigarette, and then looks at me and Pat. |
| "It's like a fucking Sartre play down there," she says. | "It's like a fucking Sartre play down there," she says. |
| We all go out to a bar. The English girl has a bright red coat and swears a lot. Her voice is husky. She is funny and charming, but also peremptory and unpredictable, with shiny little raisin eyes. | We all go out to a bar. The English girl has a bright red coat and swears a lot. Her voice is husky. She is funny and charming, but also peremptory and unpredictable, with shiny little raisin eyes. |
| "So," I say, "how long are you here for?" | "So," I say, "how long are you here for?" |
| "Look," she says, appraising me coolly. "It's almost as if we're having a conversation." | "Look," she says, appraising me coolly. "It's almost as if we're having a conversation." |
| If I'm honest, she scares the shit out of me. But by the end of the evening I very badly want the English girl to be my girlfriend. My plan is to engineer this outcome as quickly as possible. | If I'm honest, she scares the shit out of me. But by the end of the evening I very badly want the English girl to be my girlfriend. My plan is to engineer this outcome as quickly as possible. |
| There are a few flaws in my plan: the English girl lives in London, and I live in New York; I already have a girlfriend of four years' standing; the English girl does not appear to like me. Nevertheless, at a New Year's Eve party a few days later, after several hours of the sort of unrelenting flirtation that might better be characterised as lobbying, I convince her to kiss me. She doesn't seem terribly flattered by my persistence, but I suppose a man who arranges to spend New Year's Eve apart from his actual girlfriend so he can try it on with a comparative stranger is, first and foremost, a heel. She has every reason to be circumspect. | There are a few flaws in my plan: the English girl lives in London, and I live in New York; I already have a girlfriend of four years' standing; the English girl does not appear to like me. Nevertheless, at a New Year's Eve party a few days later, after several hours of the sort of unrelenting flirtation that might better be characterised as lobbying, I convince her to kiss me. She doesn't seem terribly flattered by my persistence, but I suppose a man who arranges to spend New Year's Eve apart from his actual girlfriend so he can try it on with a comparative stranger is, first and foremost, a heel. She has every reason to be circumspect. |
| I have just two weeks to break up with my girlfriend and convince the English girl that she should take me back to England with her. It is a difficult fortnight. The English girl's lacerating wit makes her a very hard person to have a crush on. We go out together several times, but we drink so much that I often have to reacquaint her with our relationship's forward progress the next morning. You like me now, I tell her. It's all been agreed. | I have just two weeks to break up with my girlfriend and convince the English girl that she should take me back to England with her. It is a difficult fortnight. The English girl's lacerating wit makes her a very hard person to have a crush on. We go out together several times, but we drink so much that I often have to reacquaint her with our relationship's forward progress the next morning. You like me now, I tell her. It's all been agreed. |
| I break up with my girlfriend one evening after work, in a bar called the Cowgirl Hall of Fame, an episode of shameful expediency I hope won't haunt me for the rest of my life, but it does a little. I have to ask for the bill while she's crying, because I have a date. This is not how I usually break up with people: directly, implacably, while sitting on one hand to stop myself looking at my watch. In fact I don't have a usual method; I've never needed to develop a technique. Girls break up with me. That's what happened the last time, and the time before that, and the time before that. | I break up with my girlfriend one evening after work, in a bar called the Cowgirl Hall of Fame, an episode of shameful expediency I hope won't haunt me for the rest of my life, but it does a little. I have to ask for the bill while she's crying, because I have a date. This is not how I usually break up with people: directly, implacably, while sitting on one hand to stop myself looking at my watch. In fact I don't have a usual method; I've never needed to develop a technique. Girls break up with me. That's what happened the last time, and the time before that, and the time before that. |
| After hailing a cab for my weeping ex-girlfriend, I walk to a bar where the English girl is waiting for me. We meet at this bar most evenings. We drink martinis and laugh, then go back to my basement apartment, which is dark and generally grubby, except for my room, which is squalid. I leave her there in the mornings to go to work, and at some point she comes and drops off my keys. In the end the English girl flies back to London without me. I write to her. I pick up a passport renewal application form. Without telling anyone, I quietly lay plans to extricate myself from my own life. | After hailing a cab for my weeping ex-girlfriend, I walk to a bar where the English girl is waiting for me. We meet at this bar most evenings. We drink martinis and laugh, then go back to my basement apartment, which is dark and generally grubby, except for my room, which is squalid. I leave her there in the mornings to go to work, and at some point she comes and drops off my keys. In the end the English girl flies back to London without me. I write to her. I pick up a passport renewal application form. Without telling anyone, I quietly lay plans to extricate myself from my own life. |
| How do I know the English girl is the one for me? I don't. And I certainly don't know if she thinks I am the one for her. Separated by an ocean, I begin to speculate about how I would feel if my holiday fling – an underwhelming American guy with a basement apartment and a dead-end job – kept ringing me to firm up what were supposed to be empty promises to visit. I'd be distant and terse – just like she is. I wonder if I am spoiling what we had by trying to prolong it. But before I have even got my passport photo taken, she rings: she's found a cheap flight and is thinking about coming for the weekend. It takes me a moment to process this news, which is slightly incompatible with her general lack of enthusiasm for our long-distance love affair. I know she hates flying. I can only conclude she must like me more than she's been letting on. I'm a little stunned by the realisation. | How do I know the English girl is the one for me? I don't. And I certainly don't know if she thinks I am the one for her. Separated by an ocean, I begin to speculate about how I would feel if my holiday fling – an underwhelming American guy with a basement apartment and a dead-end job – kept ringing me to firm up what were supposed to be empty promises to visit. I'd be distant and terse – just like she is. I wonder if I am spoiling what we had by trying to prolong it. But before I have even got my passport photo taken, she rings: she's found a cheap flight and is thinking about coming for the weekend. It takes me a moment to process this news, which is slightly incompatible with her general lack of enthusiasm for our long-distance love affair. I know she hates flying. I can only conclude she must like me more than she's been letting on. I'm a little stunned by the realisation. |
| "OK," I say. | "OK," I say. |
| "Try not to sound too fucking thrilled," she says. | "Try not to sound too fucking thrilled," she says. |
| She visits; then I visit her in England. We fight. Not the whole time, but more than twice. I cannot remember anything about these arguments other than the impact they had on me. Why were we arguing already? Either she was the most disagreeable person I'd ever met, or I was the most infuriating person she'd ever met (it's still possible both these things are true). | She visits; then I visit her in England. We fight. Not the whole time, but more than twice. I cannot remember anything about these arguments other than the impact they had on me. Why were we arguing already? Either she was the most disagreeable person I'd ever met, or I was the most infuriating person she'd ever met (it's still possible both these things are true). |
| Having committed myself to the high-wire act of a transatlantic relationship, I find myself struggling to cope with the hour-to-hour business of being together. I begin to suspect there is an element of sabotage in her attitude; maybe she sees the bickering as a kind way to euthanise a non-viable love affair. The day of my return flight is fast approaching, and we have no long-term plans. We have no plans at all. When the final morning arrives, cold and soggy, it seems like the end. I make my own way to the airport in a state of bereaved resignation. This, I realise, is what most long-distance relationships amount to: a brief, heedless romance, an expensive visit apiece and a tacit acknowledgment of defeat. As the Gatwick Express crawls through south London, I think about my dead-end job, my stupid life, my tiny room. It's ironic, I think to myself as I glare through the window at a stately procession of back gardens, that a train service calling itself the Gatwick Express moves so slowly that I could keep up jogging along beside it. What a stupid country. After a few minutes the train comes to a complete halt. Twenty minutes later, it has still not moved. | Having committed myself to the high-wire act of a transatlantic relationship, I find myself struggling to cope with the hour-to-hour business of being together. I begin to suspect there is an element of sabotage in her attitude; maybe she sees the bickering as a kind way to euthanise a non-viable love affair. The day of my return flight is fast approaching, and we have no long-term plans. We have no plans at all. When the final morning arrives, cold and soggy, it seems like the end. I make my own way to the airport in a state of bereaved resignation. This, I realise, is what most long-distance relationships amount to: a brief, heedless romance, an expensive visit apiece and a tacit acknowledgment of defeat. As the Gatwick Express crawls through south London, I think about my dead-end job, my stupid life, my tiny room. It's ironic, I think to myself as I glare through the window at a stately procession of back gardens, that a train service calling itself the Gatwick Express moves so slowly that I could keep up jogging along beside it. What a stupid country. After a few minutes the train comes to a complete halt. Twenty minutes later, it has still not moved. |
| I call her from the airport. | I call her from the airport. |
| "I missed my flight," I say. There follows a brief, unbearable silence. | "I missed my flight," I say. There follows a brief, unbearable silence. |
| "Christ," she says, pausing to blow smoke. "Come back and I'll meet you at Victoria." | "Christ," she says, pausing to blow smoke. "Come back and I'll meet you at Victoria." |
| As we drive back to the flat she's in a giddy mood. | As we drive back to the flat she's in a giddy mood. |
| "You picked a good day to miss a plane," she says. "Reach For The Sky is on telly." So we spend the afternoon sitting on the floor with a bottle of Bulgarian wine, watching an old black-and-white film. The extra day feels like a reprieve, 24 hours of happiness robbed from an unpromising future. Having never seen Reach For The Sky, I'd been expecting a weepy romantic saga, not the life story of double-amputee fighter pilot Douglas Bader. It appears to be her favourite film. I think this is probably when I know she is the one for me. | "You picked a good day to miss a plane," she says. "Reach For The Sky is on telly." So we spend the afternoon sitting on the floor with a bottle of Bulgarian wine, watching an old black-and-white film. The extra day feels like a reprieve, 24 hours of happiness robbed from an unpromising future. Having never seen Reach For The Sky, I'd been expecting a weepy romantic saga, not the life story of double-amputee fighter pilot Douglas Bader. It appears to be her favourite film. I think this is probably when I know she is the one for me. |
| I catch a flight home the next day; the day after that, I quit my job. I write a letter to my English girlfriend, telling her that as soon as I get my tin legs I'll be flying again. | I catch a flight home the next day; the day after that, I quit my job. I write a letter to my English girlfriend, telling her that as soon as I get my tin legs I'll be flying again. |
| I get a visa and fly back to London. There hardly seems enough time for us to decide what should happen next. To start with, we do nothing. April and May drift by. Finally, in mid-June, we sit down together to discuss the future. So daunting is the prospect of a wedding, much less a marriage, that the first option my girlfriend puts on the table is that we split up and live out the remainder of our lives on separate continents. I have to admit it sounds marginally less horrible than the prospect of having engagement photos taken. After an hour of circular debate, we arrive at what seems a dead end. | I get a visa and fly back to London. There hardly seems enough time for us to decide what should happen next. To start with, we do nothing. April and May drift by. Finally, in mid-June, we sit down together to discuss the future. So daunting is the prospect of a wedding, much less a marriage, that the first option my girlfriend puts on the table is that we split up and live out the remainder of our lives on separate continents. I have to admit it sounds marginally less horrible than the prospect of having engagement photos taken. After an hour of circular debate, we arrive at what seems a dead end. |
| "So that's it," she says. "We're getting married." | "So that's it," she says. "We're getting married." |
| "I suppose," I say. | "I suppose," I say. |
| "Never mind," she says, crossing the kitchen to light a fag on the hob. "We can always get divorced." | "Never mind," she says, crossing the kitchen to light a fag on the hob. "We can always get divorced." |
| I didn't get where I am today – husband, father, gainfully employed person – by executing a deliberate strategy. I got where I am today by accident. One cold winter's evening 24 years ago, my life jumped its tracks without warning. As far as I'm concerned, all I did was hang on. | I didn't get where I am today – husband, father, gainfully employed person – by executing a deliberate strategy. I got where I am today by accident. One cold winter's evening 24 years ago, my life jumped its tracks without warning. As far as I'm concerned, all I did was hang on. |
| Still, you can't be married for 20 years without people thinking there's some kind of trick to it. I suppose I must have learned a few in all that time. | Still, you can't be married for 20 years without people thinking there's some kind of trick to it. I suppose I must have learned a few in all that time. |
| How to be useful | How to be useful |
| Modern masculinity is not a role per se; it is more a patchwork of disparate talents, specialist knowledge, non-lateral thinking and a handy lack of people skills. You must become a troubleshooter, ready to solve problems and fill gaps. Do not be afraid to step in wherever you think you can be of use. I don't know what your particular niche skills are, but here are some of mine: | Modern masculinity is not a role per se; it is more a patchwork of disparate talents, specialist knowledge, non-lateral thinking and a handy lack of people skills. You must become a troubleshooter, ready to solve problems and fill gaps. Do not be afraid to step in wherever you think you can be of use. I don't know what your particular niche skills are, but here are some of mine: |
| Whistling loudlyEven today, with the End of Men almost upon us, I still don't meet many women who can whistle really loudly. I often see them in the park, making a pathetic flutey noise that their dogs can easily pretend not to hear. I guess if you don't learn to whistle properly by a certain age, you're never going to pick it up. I don't like to brag, but when I stick two fingers in my mouth and blow, all the dogs look my way. I haven't figured out how to monetise this skill yet, but I need to act quickly. | Whistling loudlyEven today, with the End of Men almost upon us, I still don't meet many women who can whistle really loudly. I often see them in the park, making a pathetic flutey noise that their dogs can easily pretend not to hear. I guess if you don't learn to whistle properly by a certain age, you're never going to pick it up. I don't like to brag, but when I stick two fingers in my mouth and blow, all the dogs look my way. I haven't figured out how to monetise this skill yet, but I need to act quickly. |
| Mono-taskingThere are plenty of women who can hold down high-pressure jobs while simultaneously looking after children, making cakes and training for triathlons, but you know what they don't have? Focus. If there's anything men are good at, it's doing one thing to the exclusion of all other things, until the task is either completed or mostly completed. I don't wash up. I wash up the baking tray, until that baking tray is so clean you could sell it on eBay under the description "like new". | Mono-taskingThere are plenty of women who can hold down high-pressure jobs while simultaneously looking after children, making cakes and training for triathlons, but you know what they don't have? Focus. If there's anything men are good at, it's doing one thing to the exclusion of all other things, until the task is either completed or mostly completed. I don't wash up. I wash up the baking tray, until that baking tray is so clean you could sell it on eBay under the description "like new". |
| Agreeing about curtainsSometimes when you're choosing curtains, you want advice from someone who says things like, "Love the colour, not sure about the pinch pleats" or, "The pattern goes well with the sofa, but are they a bit heavy for summer?" Other times, however, you just want someone who'll say, "Yeah, fine, whatever." If it's the latter you require, please don't hesitate to call. | Agreeing about curtainsSometimes when you're choosing curtains, you want advice from someone who says things like, "Love the colour, not sure about the pinch pleats" or, "The pattern goes well with the sofa, but are they a bit heavy for summer?" Other times, however, you just want someone who'll say, "Yeah, fine, whatever." If it's the latter you require, please don't hesitate to call. |
| Professional GoldilocksWhile women continue to rise to prominence across most employment sectors, they remain hampered by a gender-wide insensitivity to extremes of hot and cold. If you've ever seen a woman handle a mug straight from the dishwasher at the end of its cycle, you'll know what I mean. With their weird tolerance of over-hot baths and underheated houses, women simply cannot be relied upon to gauge temperatures. Fairytales are lovely, but if you really want to know when your porridge is "just right", don't hire a little girl. Get a man in. | Professional GoldilocksWhile women continue to rise to prominence across most employment sectors, they remain hampered by a gender-wide insensitivity to extremes of hot and cold. If you've ever seen a woman handle a mug straight from the dishwasher at the end of its cycle, you'll know what I mean. With their weird tolerance of over-hot baths and underheated houses, women simply cannot be relied upon to gauge temperatures. Fairytales are lovely, but if you really want to know when your porridge is "just right", don't hire a little girl. Get a man in. |
| Human pocketNeed me to carry anything? Don't worry, I've got plenty of pockets. In fact I'm all pockets: trouser pockets, coat pockets, front pockets, back pockets, inside pockets, outside pockets, breast pockets, ticket pockets. It's OK – bring that tiny bag just big enough for a lipstick and a mint; or, better yet, no bag at all. I will carry your phone, your water, your glasses, your other glasses, your keys, your book. That's why I was put on this Earth. | Human pocketNeed me to carry anything? Don't worry, I've got plenty of pockets. In fact I'm all pockets: trouser pockets, coat pockets, front pockets, back pockets, inside pockets, outside pockets, breast pockets, ticket pockets. It's OK – bring that tiny bag just big enough for a lipstick and a mint; or, better yet, no bag at all. I will carry your phone, your water, your glasses, your other glasses, your keys, your book. That's why I was put on this Earth. |
| How to be wrong | How to be wrong |
| Earlier today my wife was giving me a hard time about not putting the ladder back in the shed. I told her it was pointless keeping the ladder in the shed because I use it all the time, in the house; that it was much more sensible to store it under the stairs, like we used to. And why wasn't I consulted about this switch in the first place? My wife responded by saying that, at any rate, the ladder didn't live in the middle of the sitting room, where it had been all weekend, and went on to imply that I was just being lazy and also, quite possibly, a twat. Then I said: OK, this is not about the ladder any more. This is about the proper way to conduct discourse between adults. I refuse on principle – on principle! – to engage with a person who would resort to such a personal attack. | Earlier today my wife was giving me a hard time about not putting the ladder back in the shed. I told her it was pointless keeping the ladder in the shed because I use it all the time, in the house; that it was much more sensible to store it under the stairs, like we used to. And why wasn't I consulted about this switch in the first place? My wife responded by saying that, at any rate, the ladder didn't live in the middle of the sitting room, where it had been all weekend, and went on to imply that I was just being lazy and also, quite possibly, a twat. Then I said: OK, this is not about the ladder any more. This is about the proper way to conduct discourse between adults. I refuse on principle – on principle! – to engage with a person who would resort to such a personal attack. |
| And that's how I ended up here, on the moral high ground. It's like a VIP room for idiots. In the context of marriage, a moral victory is something you'll invariably end up celebrating on your own. If you're going to get on in married life – if you're going to have sex ever – you've got to learn to lose an argument. And to do that, you've got to learn how to be wrong. Unfortunately being wrong does not come easy to men. A man will go to great lengths just to avoid being put in a position where he might be obliged to express uncertainty. "Why don't you just say, 'I don't know'?" my wife will sometimes shout, after I've spent 10 minutes trying to create the opposite impression. Women tend to be more forgiving about wrongness. Some women, in my experience, will even defer to a man's pronouncements on a subject when he's clearly wrong, if only to avoid denting his fragile ego in public. My wife is not one of those women. It's one of the reasons I love her, and it's also one of the reasons I won't play tennis with her. | And that's how I ended up here, on the moral high ground. It's like a VIP room for idiots. In the context of marriage, a moral victory is something you'll invariably end up celebrating on your own. If you're going to get on in married life – if you're going to have sex ever – you've got to learn to lose an argument. And to do that, you've got to learn how to be wrong. Unfortunately being wrong does not come easy to men. A man will go to great lengths just to avoid being put in a position where he might be obliged to express uncertainty. "Why don't you just say, 'I don't know'?" my wife will sometimes shout, after I've spent 10 minutes trying to create the opposite impression. Women tend to be more forgiving about wrongness. Some women, in my experience, will even defer to a man's pronouncements on a subject when he's clearly wrong, if only to avoid denting his fragile ego in public. My wife is not one of those women. It's one of the reasons I love her, and it's also one of the reasons I won't play tennis with her. |
| One of the great tactical advantages of admitting you're wrong is that in marriage nobody wants to be a bad winner. The few times I've won an argument, I've noticed a strange hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach which somehow robs the moment of all satisfaction. And that is not how I want to feel at the end of an argument. That's how I want my wife to feel. | One of the great tactical advantages of admitting you're wrong is that in marriage nobody wants to be a bad winner. The few times I've won an argument, I've noticed a strange hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach which somehow robs the moment of all satisfaction. And that is not how I want to feel at the end of an argument. That's how I want my wife to feel. |
| How to be happy | How to be happy |
| The time-honoured debate about leaving the loo seat up or down is not a genuine source of friction in marriage. The real rule, simple and inarguable, is this: don't piss on the seat. If you have sons, it is your sworn duty as a father to impress upon them the importance of this rule. I can't tell you what my failure to do so has cost me. | The time-honoured debate about leaving the loo seat up or down is not a genuine source of friction in marriage. The real rule, simple and inarguable, is this: don't piss on the seat. If you have sons, it is your sworn duty as a father to impress upon them the importance of this rule. I can't tell you what my failure to do so has cost me. |
| It's OK to steal small amounts of money from one another. Under most circumstances it's acceptable to liberate cash from the pockets/wallet/purse of your other half while he/she sleeps or is elsewhere. The ready cash that exists in your home at any given time is a form of joint savings account, and there is a maximum amount that may be withdrawn without permission or explanation. That figure may need to be adjusted for inflation, but at the time of writing it is £10. | It's OK to steal small amounts of money from one another. Under most circumstances it's acceptable to liberate cash from the pockets/wallet/purse of your other half while he/she sleeps or is elsewhere. The ready cash that exists in your home at any given time is a form of joint savings account, and there is a maximum amount that may be withdrawn without permission or explanation. That figure may need to be adjusted for inflation, but at the time of writing it is £10. |
| Never underestimate the tremendous healing power of sitting down together from time to time to speak frankly and openly about the marital difficulties facing other couples you know. | Never underestimate the tremendous healing power of sitting down together from time to time to speak frankly and openly about the marital difficulties facing other couples you know. |
| A little paranoia is a good thing in marriage; complacency is the more dangerous enemy. You should never feel so secure that you are unable to imagine the whole thing falling apart over a long weekend. I can't give you an exact figure for how many sleepless nights per year you should spend worrying that you're going to die alone and unhappy if you don't get your shit together spouse-wise, but it's somewhere between five and eight. | A little paranoia is a good thing in marriage; complacency is the more dangerous enemy. You should never feel so secure that you are unable to imagine the whole thing falling apart over a long weekend. I can't give you an exact figure for how many sleepless nights per year you should spend worrying that you're going to die alone and unhappy if you don't get your shit together spouse-wise, but it's somewhere between five and eight. |
| How to cook | How to cook |
| Some people possess both a talent for cooking and an ability to derive pleasure from exercising their skills to feed others. Whenever possible you should try to include such a person in your holiday plans, whether or not you enjoy their company. | Some people possess both a talent for cooking and an ability to derive pleasure from exercising their skills to feed others. Whenever possible you should try to include such a person in your holiday plans, whether or not you enjoy their company. |
| But it's not uncommon to marry someone for love alone, even if that someone can't cook. My wife did, and so did I. Almost everything we know about cooking, we learned together, through a series of hideous culinary accidents. | But it's not uncommon to marry someone for love alone, even if that someone can't cook. My wife did, and so did I. Almost everything we know about cooking, we learned together, through a series of hideous culinary accidents. |
| My wife and I pooled what little knowledge we had, and between us we developed a repertoire that spanned a seven-day meal cycle, if you included a takeaway on Sunday. These are not recipes as such, just dishes that have evolved over years of trial and error, including one that is simply called Mexican (it is not remotely Mexican, but it does call for four tins of refried beans), and a weird, paprika-tinged collection of odds and ends known, with no great affection, as Spicy Ricey. These two meals remain in the rotation after 15 years, but they are rarely served to outsiders. Dinner parties are a different matter. | My wife and I pooled what little knowledge we had, and between us we developed a repertoire that spanned a seven-day meal cycle, if you included a takeaway on Sunday. These are not recipes as such, just dishes that have evolved over years of trial and error, including one that is simply called Mexican (it is not remotely Mexican, but it does call for four tins of refried beans), and a weird, paprika-tinged collection of odds and ends known, with no great affection, as Spicy Ricey. These two meals remain in the rotation after 15 years, but they are rarely served to outsiders. Dinner parties are a different matter. |
| "I hate having dinner parties," my wife says. | "I hate having dinner parties," my wife says. |
| "You're not supposed to say that while everyone's still here," I say, indicating our guests. | "You're not supposed to say that while everyone's still here," I say, indicating our guests. |
| Some thoughts on sex | Some thoughts on sex |
| Even if sex is no longer marriage's unique selling point, it remains an important component of any union and so deserves at least cursory treatment. You may, if you wish, infer that the following highly informative sexual bullet points have been gleaned from decades of personal experience, but, officially, I learned all this from watching television. | Even if sex is no longer marriage's unique selling point, it remains an important component of any union and so deserves at least cursory treatment. You may, if you wish, infer that the following highly informative sexual bullet points have been gleaned from decades of personal experience, but, officially, I learned all this from watching television. |
| • While the actual amount of sex undertaken will vary from couple to couple, there is no getting round the fact that marriage is in part an epic exercise in sexual rejection. Being a good husband means hearing the word "no" (variants include "Stop it", "Fuck off ", "Leave me alone") countless times over many years without going hot in the face with hurt and self-loathing, or at least not appearing to. It means gallantly turning down half-hearted offers of perfunctory, mechanical sex from someone too tired to contemplate anything else, and then finding a way, five minutes later, to say that you've changed your mind. | • While the actual amount of sex undertaken will vary from couple to couple, there is no getting round the fact that marriage is in part an epic exercise in sexual rejection. Being a good husband means hearing the word "no" (variants include "Stop it", "Fuck off ", "Leave me alone") countless times over many years without going hot in the face with hurt and self-loathing, or at least not appearing to. It means gallantly turning down half-hearted offers of perfunctory, mechanical sex from someone too tired to contemplate anything else, and then finding a way, five minutes later, to say that you've changed your mind. |
| • Sex, for the most part, happens between couples who go to bed at the same time. It's fine to stay up later than your partner, as long as you bear in mind that you are effectively choosing between sex and Newsnight. Waking up your partner for sex is famously not a good idea, although I've always imagined I would be totally accommodating about it if it happened to me. | • Sex, for the most part, happens between couples who go to bed at the same time. It's fine to stay up later than your partner, as long as you bear in mind that you are effectively choosing between sex and Newsnight. Waking up your partner for sex is famously not a good idea, although I've always imagined I would be totally accommodating about it if it happened to me. |
| How to keep a sense of humour | How to keep a sense of humour |
| At the outset of parenthood you may wonder what kind of father you are going to be. Don't worry: you are going to be your father, more or less. It's not your fault – you've only got the one role model, if that. That said, I did not envisage a time when, during one of my lectures about manners and public etiquette in a noodle bar, my children would take turns poking chopsticks into my ears, until the theory that I was possessed of a sense of humour about myself had been comprehensively disproved. I did not imagine that the oldest one would develop a habit of greeting me by slapping me lightly on both cheeks, or that the middle one would hijack my Twitter account to post heartfelt admissions of loserdom ("Hi, I suck at everything I try in life") or that the youngest would insist on addressing me as "Daddy me laddy". | At the outset of parenthood you may wonder what kind of father you are going to be. Don't worry: you are going to be your father, more or less. It's not your fault – you've only got the one role model, if that. That said, I did not envisage a time when, during one of my lectures about manners and public etiquette in a noodle bar, my children would take turns poking chopsticks into my ears, until the theory that I was possessed of a sense of humour about myself had been comprehensively disproved. I did not imagine that the oldest one would develop a habit of greeting me by slapping me lightly on both cheeks, or that the middle one would hijack my Twitter account to post heartfelt admissions of loserdom ("Hi, I suck at everything I try in life") or that the youngest would insist on addressing me as "Daddy me laddy". |
| Episodes like these prompted some questions of my own: when did I graduate from care-giver to figure of fun? As they get older, I just seem to get funnier. Is it to do with my personality, I wonder, or is it something about the times we live in? I have a sneaking suspicion that my self-importance may be in some innate way self-sabotaging, if only because I suck at everything I try in life. But I also know that when I was a child, grown-ups were more or less exempt from ridicule. | Episodes like these prompted some questions of my own: when did I graduate from care-giver to figure of fun? As they get older, I just seem to get funnier. Is it to do with my personality, I wonder, or is it something about the times we live in? I have a sneaking suspicion that my self-importance may be in some innate way self-sabotaging, if only because I suck at everything I try in life. But I also know that when I was a child, grown-ups were more or less exempt from ridicule. |
| In the winter of 1974 my father walked into a glass wall at the Hilton in Pittsfield, Massachusetts. He was striding across the deck of the indoor swimming area, wife and four small children trying to keep pace with him, past a neat line of deck chairs towards the poolside restaurant. He was attempting to slip between two occupied tables when he hit the glass at full speed. I remember him crawling around on his hands and knees for what seemed a long time, dazed and unable to grasp what had just happened. "For Christ's sake, Bob, get up," my mother said. "I'm trying," he said, as blood dripped from his nose. He was fine after a few minutes, but we did not eat in the hotel restaurant that night. Were I to walk into a glass wall, I sometimes think my children's only regrets would be about not having the presence of mind to film it. | In the winter of 1974 my father walked into a glass wall at the Hilton in Pittsfield, Massachusetts. He was striding across the deck of the indoor swimming area, wife and four small children trying to keep pace with him, past a neat line of deck chairs towards the poolside restaurant. He was attempting to slip between two occupied tables when he hit the glass at full speed. I remember him crawling around on his hands and knees for what seemed a long time, dazed and unable to grasp what had just happened. "For Christ's sake, Bob, get up," my mother said. "I'm trying," he said, as blood dripped from his nose. He was fine after a few minutes, but we did not eat in the hotel restaurant that night. Were I to walk into a glass wall, I sometimes think my children's only regrets would be about not having the presence of mind to film it. |
| It wouldn't have occurred to me to laugh. Mind you, I didn't feel a tremendous amount of empathy either. I was too busy feeling guilty, because I'd known the glass was there all along. I'd spotted the illusion earlier and had been vaguely planning some stunt to fool my family. For that reason I was pleased we were heading right for it; I just hadn't reckoned on my father getting quite so far ahead of me. I never intended for him to walk into the glass, but there was a moment when I realised he wasn't going to stop, and I still chose to say nothing. I figured God would get me back for it someday. Perhaps, at last, He has. | It wouldn't have occurred to me to laugh. Mind you, I didn't feel a tremendous amount of empathy either. I was too busy feeling guilty, because I'd known the glass was there all along. I'd spotted the illusion earlier and had been vaguely planning some stunt to fool my family. For that reason I was pleased we were heading right for it; I just hadn't reckoned on my father getting quite so far ahead of me. I never intended for him to walk into the glass, but there was a moment when I realised he wasn't going to stop, and I still chose to say nothing. I figured God would get me back for it someday. Perhaps, at last, He has. |
| How to keep the magic alive | How to keep the magic alive |
| I am, in so very many ways, not the man my wife married. To present just one small example: I am, at the time of writing, wearing a beard. Not a false one – it's attached. For almost 20 years my wife knew me as a clean-shaven man. I had what I thought were strong, if ill-defined, objections to facial hair. Then one day, about two years ago, I grew one. I don't recall making an actual decision, but that's the great thing about a beard – it just happens. It's the product of something you're not doing, the point where sloth meets affectation – the sweet spot I've been searching for my whole life. So taken was I with my new image that I forgot to consult the one person who mattered. I was more than a month in when I finally said to my wife, "So, do you, um, like the beard?" She appraised my face as if the question had not yet occurred to her. "I don't mind the beard," she said. She looked at me again, as if perhaps she'd spoken too soon, but then she walked away without adding anything. And that was it – another odd change accommodated, folded into the marriage without protest or ceremony. | I am, in so very many ways, not the man my wife married. To present just one small example: I am, at the time of writing, wearing a beard. Not a false one – it's attached. For almost 20 years my wife knew me as a clean-shaven man. I had what I thought were strong, if ill-defined, objections to facial hair. Then one day, about two years ago, I grew one. I don't recall making an actual decision, but that's the great thing about a beard – it just happens. It's the product of something you're not doing, the point where sloth meets affectation – the sweet spot I've been searching for my whole life. So taken was I with my new image that I forgot to consult the one person who mattered. I was more than a month in when I finally said to my wife, "So, do you, um, like the beard?" She appraised my face as if the question had not yet occurred to her. "I don't mind the beard," she said. She looked at me again, as if perhaps she'd spoken too soon, but then she walked away without adding anything. And that was it – another odd change accommodated, folded into the marriage without protest or ceremony. |
| Not all change in marriage can be hailed as progress, or even neutral adjustment. Sometimes people adopt unpleasant habits or objectionable political views. My wife has recently acquired a taste for playing Candy Crush on her phone in bed. This drives me insane. "Why?" she says. "Is it because you hate me being good at things?" "No," I say. "It's because I'm tired, and there's a multisocket extension lead on my pillow." | Not all change in marriage can be hailed as progress, or even neutral adjustment. Sometimes people adopt unpleasant habits or objectionable political views. My wife has recently acquired a taste for playing Candy Crush on her phone in bed. This drives me insane. "Why?" she says. "Is it because you hate me being good at things?" "No," I say. "It's because I'm tired, and there's a multisocket extension lead on my pillow." |
| I'll admit that I myself am not necessarily getting better every day in every way, and that many of my changes for the worse were unexpected. My wife couldn't have known when she met me that I would one day be nearly impossible to contact by email, because there was no email. How could I warn her? Back then I could never have envisaged a dystopian future in which strangers could submit written questions to you while you were sitting alone in a room minding your own business. | I'll admit that I myself am not necessarily getting better every day in every way, and that many of my changes for the worse were unexpected. My wife couldn't have known when she met me that I would one day be nearly impossible to contact by email, because there was no email. How could I warn her? Back then I could never have envisaged a dystopian future in which strangers could submit written questions to you while you were sitting alone in a room minding your own business. |
| Cumulatively these changes, both little and large, add up to two totally different people over the course of two decades. My wife is patently not the same woman I married, the woman who used to smoke but now chews nicotine gum, and who deposits the chewed pieces in the little well of the door handle on the driver's side of the car until it's practically overflowing with them, so that sometimes when she slams the door a few bounce out and land on the seat, and then the next person who drives sits on them unawares and gets stuck there. This disgusting and wholly unforeseen habit aside, to me she remains very like the girl I met in New York almost a quarter of a century ago, in that, from time to time, she still scares the shit out of me. That much, I think, will never change. | Cumulatively these changes, both little and large, add up to two totally different people over the course of two decades. My wife is patently not the same woman I married, the woman who used to smoke but now chews nicotine gum, and who deposits the chewed pieces in the little well of the door handle on the driver's side of the car until it's practically overflowing with them, so that sometimes when she slams the door a few bounce out and land on the seat, and then the next person who drives sits on them unawares and gets stuck there. This disgusting and wholly unforeseen habit aside, to me she remains very like the girl I met in New York almost a quarter of a century ago, in that, from time to time, she still scares the shit out of me. That much, I think, will never change. |
| • This is an edited extract from How To Be A Husband by Tim Dowling, published by Fourth Estate at £12.99. To order a copy for £8.99 with free UK mainland p&p, go to theguardian.com/bookshop or call 0330 333 6846. | • This is an edited extract from How To Be A Husband by Tim Dowling, published by Fourth Estate at £12.99. To order a copy for £8.99 with free UK mainland p&p, go to theguardian.com/bookshop or call 0330 333 6846. |
| How to be married: Tim's wife responds | How to be married: Tim's wife responds |
| I suppose I had an unfair advantage from the outset. First, there was his social isolation: Tim knew no one when he first came to England and I was able to hand-pick his friends, who as it turned out were my friends, with the requisite loyalties. As powerful was his terror of my dysfunctional "blended" family and our domestic arrangements (see living with the mother-in-law) and his separation from his own saner, kinder and certainly more stable family back in the States. On this shaky footing he really had no one else to turn to but me. In those early years Tim had no job and no money. His passport had a "do not return to UK" stamp in it. He rarely left the house and he couldn't drive. In hindsight, I more or less trafficked him. | I suppose I had an unfair advantage from the outset. First, there was his social isolation: Tim knew no one when he first came to England and I was able to hand-pick his friends, who as it turned out were my friends, with the requisite loyalties. As powerful was his terror of my dysfunctional "blended" family and our domestic arrangements (see living with the mother-in-law) and his separation from his own saner, kinder and certainly more stable family back in the States. On this shaky footing he really had no one else to turn to but me. In those early years Tim had no job and no money. His passport had a "do not return to UK" stamp in it. He rarely left the house and he couldn't drive. In hindsight, I more or less trafficked him. |
| Day-to-day living has evolved over time. I'm in charge of leaving the house, whether it's to go to work, attend school events, walk the dogs or do the shopping. Tim is lethal in a supermarket – he goes off-list. We divide the cooking equally, but not, it seems, the clearing up. | Day-to-day living has evolved over time. I'm in charge of leaving the house, whether it's to go to work, attend school events, walk the dogs or do the shopping. Tim is lethal in a supermarket – he goes off-list. We divide the cooking equally, but not, it seems, the clearing up. |
| The children may be the product of "shared care", but I know where they go to school and who their friends are. They are his playthings and he's still disappointed we are not 2014's answer to the Partridge family. All travel and social arrangements, bank transactions, bill payments are my domain. He doesn't like talking on the phone. Tim is head of household maintenance: lightbulbs, dishwasher faults, leaky taps. He's also in charge of family health and safety (it's an American thing), worrying about nothing and looking himself up on the internet. We both know the other's roles and limitations. It's a well-oiled machine. | The children may be the product of "shared care", but I know where they go to school and who their friends are. They are his playthings and he's still disappointed we are not 2014's answer to the Partridge family. All travel and social arrangements, bank transactions, bill payments are my domain. He doesn't like talking on the phone. Tim is head of household maintenance: lightbulbs, dishwasher faults, leaky taps. He's also in charge of family health and safety (it's an American thing), worrying about nothing and looking himself up on the internet. We both know the other's roles and limitations. It's a well-oiled machine. |
| Tim now has his own friends, Skype, a banjo, the band, even a job of sorts. I have someone to mend stuff and watch box sets with. I also enjoy pole position as the most hated wife in a weekly magazine column, and if I occasionally take issue with the portrayal, I can't pretend I don't recognise myself. He may not have made quite such a success out of being married to someone nicer. Together we have a mortgage, three children, four pets and a 20-year marriage. Who knew? | Tim now has his own friends, Skype, a banjo, the band, even a job of sorts. I have someone to mend stuff and watch box sets with. I also enjoy pole position as the most hated wife in a weekly magazine column, and if I occasionally take issue with the portrayal, I can't pretend I don't recognise myself. He may not have made quite such a success out of being married to someone nicer. Together we have a mortgage, three children, four pets and a 20-year marriage. Who knew? |
| PS I miss Jon Ronson. | PS I miss Jon Ronson. |
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