Home Away From Home

Dear Husband,
So, I asked you something this morning which I am reasonably sure that you promptly forgot within the short drive home from dropping me off at the train station. So its not exactly  that my request potentially fell on deaf ears but rather that my request might not have been awarded the significance that brings forth the “retention” command from your brain in addition to that of “comprehension”. Or perhaps it is merely that after a couple of years of marriage I am still asking the wrong question. Can you do a lot of things I ask you to do? Of course you can. Will you? That is another matter entirely.
And my request today was very similar to one I made a few days ago. One which definitely did go in one ear and out the other because nothing has changed since. These are not big things that I have asked though, or at least I don’t think they are. They also seem to me to be something akin to common sense to me or at the very least common courtesy given what we share. I am talking about our car of course and the fact that I wish you would not treat it like your own private home away from home.
A home where the boot serves as the closet. The place where you can shove all sorts of paraphernalia in a haphazard sort of way and then close it off from human sight. A space that could be neatly ordered with a place for everything and everything in its place but unless you’re my mother, it probably isn’t. A home where the back seat serves as the yard and the garage all rolled into one. The space now reserved for the dog and everything that doesn’t fit in the house. Where you can keep those things you don’t want to or haven’t gotten around to throwing out yet. A Trash ‘n Treasure of sorts. A home where the passenger seat serves as the spare room where you put your occasional guests. Where you find a convenient surface that’s both handy and out of your way which is coincidentally also the repository for clutter most recently discarded. A place that probably should be a bit more organised but then its not as if anyone is there full time or permanently except that yes, I am. Permanent that is.
Every working day you drop me off at the station and those same days, you pick me up. On the weekends we frequently go out together as well so its really not as though I’m never there. And I’m getting a little sick of the plank of wood that is apparently supposed to fulfil some purpose not in the car, when it eventually makes it out of course. I am getting tired of the newspapers, junk mail, CD cases, letters and receipts that litter the space at my feet. I am totally over the discarded ties, empty packets and the heavy duty cable (whose purpose and raison d’être in our lives I don’t completely understand) which have totally clogged both foot wells in the back seat. Don’t even get me started on the boot and to top it all off, I am frustrated by the fact that there are numerous dirty food storage containers strewn throughout the car growing God knows what.
This is what I asked you this morning. If you could take them out of the car and put them in the washing up. The washing up which you don’t even have to do because its my job. I can’t tell you how delightful it is to open these food containers which have been repeatedly heated by a car in full sun and cooled by evening rain. Where the smell is almost overpowering and the mould has taken over and is practically its own little eco-system. I suppose that I shouldn’t admit that I even let it get to that point. That I see this debris and I leave it there. That I don’t simply go through the car each day like a mother rifles through a son’s school backpack looking for anything that shouldn’t still be in there but then I’m not your mother. I’m your wife. And I’ll be damned if I never make you do anything reasonable that I ask of you. So if you happen to read this today, will you please clear out the car and put the food containers in the washing up pile?
Potentially gratefully yours,
Your Loving Wife
* Photo taken of the Globe Bar on our anniversary
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