Today is Mr. Waffle’s birthday. It always casts an ominous shadow over mine on the 10th. Almost invariably, he gets me a lovely, thoughtful present. My pleasure is always tempered by the knowledge that I have nothing for him and by the 19th, I will have to rustle up something.
Oh yes, it’s all about me. Anyhow, when he came in from work this evening the children and I sat him down and gave him a glass of wine. The Princess had made madeleines during the afternoon while we were at work and he had them as his birthday cake. She is a virtuous child. Mr. Waffle often asks for these but the children and I prefer our cakes to be iced and to include chocolate. His family are frugal in their habits; a marietta biscuit between five of them is plenty. These are good genes. Michael has them in spades.
I thought that I should note that my husband is a saint. I intended to give lots of examples of his virtue, including, for example, that I still don’t know how to operate the washing machine and yet we have clean clothes. A daily miracle. As it is late, one earlier example of virtue will have to suffice. After dinner, I told him to go and sit down and I would clean up when the dishwasher had finished. I went upstairs to harass the retreat (or “sing a lullaby” as it is known locally) and what unmistakeable sounds did I hear from the kitchen? Yes, indeed, my husband had cast his book aside and was cleaning up after his birthday dinner.
Definitely, the best husband.
