WE need to talk,” husband insisted. I was watching television and had no desire to chatter. “We never really talk much and you are always away,” he nagged on.
What can we talk about? I have nothing left to say. We have been married nearly 30 years and I am happy to be part of that couple who sit in silence. I used to mock those soundless, stony, married twosomes that came to our bar back in the 1980s. I re
call worrying at the thought of us turning into those silent statues that bore testament to the longevity of their relationship. I never wanted to be one of them.
What the hell was all this ‘Let’s talk’ crap all about? Talking usually leads to arguing. I decided to bite the bullet and answered: “OK, let’s talk. What would you like to talk about?”
Seems my husband’s idea of conversation was different from what I expected. I thought we were going to talk about my festival show, his lack of shower-cleaning or maybe world events.
What he actually opened with was: “You need to pay your bills, your invoices are behind and have you organised a flat for the Edinburgh Fringe yet?”
“That isn’t talking, mate!” I snapped back. “That’s bloody ordering me about! When did impersonating Mussolini and barking out demands become a chit-chat?”
I have come to realise that silence truly is golden. It’s good to sit in companionable silence. The best days we have are the ones where we both lie in peacefulness and listen to a talking book, or we have already fallen out and don’t speak for days.
In my head, I have a million wee fluttering thoughts buzzing around. I imagine befriending talking animals, snogging George Clooney, me wearing a sparkly bikini on my imaginary skinny slick body. I don’t need my husband talking over the top of my private fantasies.
Couples are told that communication is everything and that we must constantly discuss our feelings. I disagree. The more I talk about my feelings, the more annoyed I get. I can’t always verbalise or explain my emotions and, to be honest, they are best not described.
I know for a fact that the sheer amount of hormonal flooding that gets pumped into my system means that I am possibly more volatile than a Russian nuclear plant for at least 20 days a month. Sometimes, the only way I can describe my inner self involves rude finger-puppetry, regularly screaming at the top of my lungs or me laughing manically as I threaten to set fire to the living room. Just don’t ask me to talk about feelings.
It’s not always good to talk.
The light fantastic – in InvernessI AM in Norwich on Thursday and Inverness next Sunday, performing my one-woman show. Touring is exhausting but wonderful, just for the experience of entertaining different demographics, and I am getting all geared up for the Edinburgh Fringe which starts at the end of July.
The best thing about getting around the UK is staying in hotels and small B&Bs.
The last time I stayed in Inverness, in a small guest house, I couldn’t believe the sheer number of lights in the tiny room. It had seven overhead spotlights and three switches to operate them. To be honest, a lit match would have shed enough light to see the whole place.
It also had shoe cleaner, toothpicks, sanitary goods, biscuits and sachets of suntan lotion. I decided it wasn’t a bedroom but more of a nuclear bunker. I loved it.
Inverness – the place to be in case of an emergency!
Free demonstration of Abi’s flying feet is fully bookedABI, my great-niece, has taken up Irish dancing. She is very good at it and recently won two medals. We met up last week at Borders bookstore in Glasgow – I was buying her some stationery, as she starts school this year.
For my delight, she recreated her dance routine at the entrance to the store, much to the annoyance of the customers.
Her wee sandal-clad feet were kicking up a storm; she skipped about and, with pointy toes and firmly-clamped-down arms, danced her heart out.
I joined in and the security guard told me off, though Abi carried on regardless and even took a bow.
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www.janeygodley.co.ukThe full article contains 756 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
