Olé

Toddler wisdom

I was going to Madrid for work. Mr McG would fly out a couple of days later and we’d spend the weekend there.

However, the night before I left we had a monumental row and I told him to fuck off out of my life and that I would go on my own. Or words to that effect.

Fortunately, peace was restored the next day and we agreed he would join me after all. But I hadn’t compleeeetely forgiven or forgotten and refused to tell him where I was staying. Let him stew.

He flew to the Spanish capital at the weekend and caught a bus into the centre. I sent him coy messages about where I might or might not be.

Eventually he texted me that he’d found an Irish pub and was watching one of the Six Nations rugby matches within until I gave him an address/instructions/directions. Preferably before nightfall.

I’d been shopping. I wandered back to my hotel, reflecting on a response. On the way, I decided to walk down a different side street. I caught sight of what looked like a cafe further up and, curiously drawn to it, made my way there. It turned out to be an Irish pub....

I walked in as if in a trance. And spotted my husband almost immediately, with his back to me, engrossed in the rugby.

What were the chances? In the whole of Madrid?!

I walked up behind him and stuck my tongue in his ear. He was curiously unfazed. Bastard.