Settling Down...

Me and the Missus are walking back from the pub. It is cold and snowy and quiet and she's holding onto my arm.

Normally this would appear to be a romantic gesture but I know full well she's doing it so she doesn't fall over and end up sitting on the pavement with a freezing arse swearing at me in the snow like some mad old women who smells of wee and has 50 cats.

I do, however, take the chance to be romantic and hope that she will respond in kind.
'We're still happy after 12 years together, aren't we? We even still quite like each other...'

The Missus ponders before replying.
'Yes we are... but that's because we've settled for each other.'

We walk on. I try not to delve too deeply into her comment but I can't help myself.

I'm a 'settled for' husband. That's probably like being a safe pair of hands. I am the marital equivalent of a safe pair of hands. The BHS of husbands. Not particularly classy or fantastic to look at but dependable and reasonably well-made.

I conclude I'm not trying to be romantic ever again.