Friday night was spent vegging in front of the television catching up on various soaps with the husband (it doesn't seem to matter how many I miss, as nothing much ever happens).
'Fancy something to eat?' he asked during the adverts.
'I have steaks in the fridge - we could have them with some chips. Will that do?'
Now these weren't any old steaks, I'll have you know. These were Aldi steaks, bought last Friday and on their final hours of 'Best By...'. The husband was sceptical as these two pieces of 28 day matured beef had cost me the princely sum of £6.58, and the oven chips I was delicately thrusting into a tray had cost 69p, so all in all, we were looking at a budget meal of some proportion. Now in our house, I am not allowed to cook the steaks.
This comes under the Blue Job category, and is therefore only allowed to be undertaken by males of the house. Well as my two dogs aren't too good with a spatula and the induction oven equivalent of a naked flame, it was left to the husband to do them. 'You get the chips started,and I'll have a really quick shower. When I come down, I'll cook the steaks'. Looking at the kitchen clock, I said to him that the chips would be ready by 7.45, ie 25 minutes time. His parting words? 'No problem at all...'
He wasn't back downstairs by 7.35, when the steaks should have gone on. Now was he down by 7.45, when the chips were cooked. At 7.50, I turned the oven off to stop the chips resembling charred Swan Vestas, and I turned the hob on and started to warm the frying pan up for the steaks.
'Step away from the steaks', he thundered as he saw me starting to pick up one of the steaks. I looked up, and OH. MY. GOD....
'What on earth have you done?' I asked him, my eyebrows shooting up so high that they almost shot off my forehead.
Concentrating on getting the steaks into the hot pan, he went on to explain that he'd cut his own hair with his beard trimmer. Now let's get a couple of things straight here. Firstly, he has no beard, so why he has a beard trimmer is anyone's guess (perhaps it came free with the nasal hair trimmer which lurks at the back of the cupboard gathering dust) and secondly, he doesn't have much hair on his head, and what he does have tends to be down the back, rather than on the top and sides.
'I think I've done quite a good job actually', he said, flipping the steaks.
Well from the front, maybe. But when I looked at the back, it looked a bit like a leg which you've shaved in the dark under the influence of drink. You know the kind of thing, when you're stretched out by the pool, and just happen to glance down at your legs and notice the small five o'clock shadow just above your ankle, looking like an early crop of snowdrops. His small crop circle was at the top, and having mentioned it to him, I suggested that perhaps he should cultivate that and turn it into a ponytail.
Smiling knowingly, the husband simply said, 'You know what a ponytail always hides, don't you?'
'No, I don't', I said.
'An ar**hole, that's what'.
Said 'Tufty' as he slapped the steaks onto the plate, which, by the way, were delicious...