The Dreaded Question

Seven months pregnant, maybe a little insecure. It probably didn't help that half an hour before I had pointed at the massively distended lump and casually declared, "Lord, you've let yourself go."

It was a joke. It was taken as a joke, she laughed and everything.

But a lady's mind is distinctly different from that of a bloke. Casual insults are one of the few methods of communication that a man can resort to without appearing "a little bit gay". Such is the level of insecurity round the issue of masculinity that the "Get the pints in!" will often be finished with off a little emotional blow such as, "you fat bastard!" just in case the previous statement sounded a little bit affectionate, and everyone in the pub suddenly formed the impression that the speaker was a bum-stuffing, lipstick-wearing, rim-tickling gaylord. At that point it is unlikely that the recipient of the insult will scuttle of to the toilets to check out his reflection in mirror* and fret about "loosing his figure." He will simply parry the attack with dazzling repartee, such as "Er, you nob."

But women are not made the same way as men, no, no no.** Things stew. They fester. Minds become warped.

She was walking through the middle of the living room, when she stopped. Just like that. She stopped and turned her head and asked "Do you still fancy me?"

Now, the correct answer would be "I love you more with each and every second I spend with you. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Let me make love to you right here on the carpet."

But let me paint a picture for you:
Faded cheap pink dressing gown,
Hair tied above her head with an old pair of knickers,
Wearing my Ugg-style sheepskin slipper-boots,
Seven months up the duff,
Recovering from a nasty stomach bug.

The only question I would expect such an apparition of beauty to naturally ask would be (southern american drawl) "Papa, Papa, have you greased the hog?"

She stood in front of me and asked again "Do you still fancy me?"

Quick witted as ever I replied, "Errrm, ah, oh. Well... Ah." Incredulous face of a deer caught in headlights operated by a giant tin of condensed milk "Yes?"

I think I got away with it.



* In proper pubs, the mirror in the gents will be three inches square, broken, greasy and about seven foot off the floor. This is to prevent any lingering, which is an offence, under the Blokes In Pubs (Urinals) Act 1724, Sections 1,2,3, 34, 72 and 128 (very common law.) It is the same law that dictates that seats must be removed from cubicles and that the floor should be flooded with a cocktail of vomit, fecal matter and wee-wee, to the minimum depth of "shoe vulnerability".

**Apart from my ex-girlfriend "Malcolm"