The Pygmy Giant

by Jennifer Walmsley

‘Not with that you won’t!’ he said as I made a grab for the remote. It rested inbetween comfortable folds of his plaid dressing gown.

‘How can I change channels without it?’ I eyed the crumbs from his toast that had crept between said folds like tiny ants after apricot jam splodges.

‘Thought you said you’d washing to do,’ he said, taking hold of the remote in his sticky paws.

‘Thought you said you were meeting Jack in the allotment,’ I retorted in a quiet voice.

‘Not till eleven.’ A cartoon cat shrieked from the TV.

‘I just want to check something on the text.’ I made a snatch for it again. We had a tug of war then I said, a little louder this time, ‘It’s not got your bloody name etched on it.’

He won the tug of war and tucked the remote between his legs, a place I wouldn’t want to trespass. ‘Who bought the TV?’ A stubbly, obstinate chin jutted up and, trying to out stare him, I wished I could jettison him out of his damn chair and through the open window like in that advert on TV. Instead I let out a huff of annoyance and left him to wallow in his minor victory.

Later, around 9.30, he wandered into the kitchen just in his underpants and T-shirt. ‘Did you wash my working jeans?’ he asked, eyeing a pile of dirty washing on the floor.

I loaded the machine, leaving a neat pile behind and, on shutting the door, turned the machine on to economy wash. ‘Who bought this washing machine?’ I asked. He looked puzzled and I prompted, ‘the other one broke down, a month ago. Remember?’

Then the answer seemed to dawn on my husband’s face. ‘You.’ He coughed as if trying to cover his humiliation.

I handed him a packet of hand wash powder. ‘I bought this too but I can’t be that bloody mean, can I?’ Then pointed to the sink.

Satisfied, I left the kitchen to the sounds of muttered curses and running water.

Jennifer Walmsley was born and brought up in Wales, and has had short stories published in both women’s and Welsh literary magazines.