Aka - The Anniversary
Back at the seen of the crime, four years later, spawn in tow.
I’m concerned that Zsuzsa is suffering from severe sleep deprivation. It’s our wedding anniversary and she’s just, out of the blue, asked me if I think human flesh would be delicious.
“Um, I don’t know. Maybe. Why do you ask?”
“I just feel sorry for chickens.” she replies, a sad expression currently appearing on her face.
This comment has done nothing for my concerns.
“You feel sorry for chickens?” I ask.
“I do. I mean how unlucky they are that they they’re so delicious. If they weren’t delicious we wouldn’t eat them.”
“Uh huh.” I say and take a bite of my weinerschnitzel.
As an aside, as I know how fascinating you’ll find this, the wienerschnitzel that I’m currently stuffing in to my face is, according to the menu at least, the biggest wienerschnitzel in the county. After one bite I can also confirm that it’s also the toughest and most inedible wienerschnitzel in the county, probably the country, possibly the world. As I chew my way through the rhino-hide like texture, I’m predicting that it will be digested slowly in my intestines over the next twenty odd years. Please stay tuned for updates on my wienerschnitzel digestion status in the coming weeks.
“I think if was to choose a human to eat, you’d be right up there.” I say, which looking back suggests that maybe I also need forty or so winks.
Zsuzsa looks at me perplexed.
“I’m not saying I’d want to eat you.” I add. “Just that I think you’d be one of the tastier ones. I’d miss you of course.”
“Of course honey. I know you would.” says Zsuzsa, reaching over the table, grabbing my hand and smiling sweetly in to my eyes. “Happy anniversary darling.”
I’m wondering if this is the perfect opportunity to drop in that I’d quite like to watch the boxing in the early hours of our anniversary morning, but something tells me that the moment isn’t right.
We finish our anniversary evening with a stroll around the town of Eger (the place where we were married four years previously) before slowly heading back to Zsuzsa’s parents home to be reunited with our tiny human spawn and settle down for the night.
Our wedding wine.
We’d only decided to travel to Eger that morning. I’d woken up feeling impulsive.
“Honey! Let’s be impulsive!” I’d excitedly bellowed while throwing my hands in the air. And by that I mean raised my arms, not that I’d begun juggling with my collection of vintage severed hands.
“Urgh.” Zsuzsa had groaned.
I'd read between the lines of her response and decided that my poor wife was verging on slipping in to a coma, but I wasn’t to be dissuaded.
“Come on honey! Let’s be impulsive! Let’s just do something! Something instantaneous! Something on the spur of the moment!”
“Urgh.”
I’d instantaneously decided to make a couple of coffees.
Ten minutes later and we’d formulated a plan. An impulsive plan to go to Eger, offload our baby with the in-laws and leg it.
“Let’s travel light!” I’d excitedly suggested. “Let’s take pretty much nothing but a small bag and a baby! Let’s throw some clothes on and get up and go! Come on! Woo-hoo!”
Zsuzsa had nodded. The game was on.
Four impulsive hours later and we were at the car. Like some sort of pack mule, Zsuzsa has covered my body from head to toe in bags. Zsuzsa was standing beside me with a suitcase, a toy pushchair and a paddling pool. This my friends, is what travelling light and impulsive looks like, parent style.
It’s now six in the morning the next day, after our romantic meal and stroll around Eger. My wienerschnitzel is still in its honeymoon period of digestion and Mila is crying.
“Urgh.” says Zsuzsa.
I look at my tired boutique wife and I pity her. I take a deep breath. This is my moment to shine. This is my moment to be a hero.
"Don't worry honey. I've got this. I'll take her downstairs to play." I whisper.
Without opening her eyes she smiles at me.
"Oh thank you darling. You're a legend."
"Don't mention it baby." I say and kiss her on her cheek.
I pick Mila up out of her cot and take her downstairs to watch the boxing.
After all, not all heroes wear capes.