My wife, my wife of twenty three years, is called Hannah. Straight Hannah. No abbreviation such as Han or any modern street alternative like Hazzah. Straight Hannah. I’m not sure why I’m telling you this. It’s not that important. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just that I like talking about her. Anyway, at around midday this morning, Hannah, not Han or Hazzah, shouted to me that the doorbell wasn’t working. I said I was making pancakes for lunch. I had been looking forward to this for a few days now and had the mixing bowl, the butter, the flour, the eggs, the milk and the salt out on the kitchen counter. I was content.
She came through to the kitchen and leant against the fridge fixing me with her gimlet green eyes. My legs buckled slightly. She could do this to me even after all these years. I suggested we go upstairs for a 12 o’clock cuddle and hang the pancakes but she said we can’t because the doorbell isn’t working. She said this without blinking, without a smile, so there was obviously some logic there which I’m too dim to follow. So I said, pancakes then? She smiled, sweetly, and said, doorbell first, because we’ve already missed the postman delivering a parcel and because we may or may not have some visitors and it would appear churlish if we were obviously at home and we didn’t come to the door.
Hannah, not Han or Hazzah, was as usual one hundred percent right which is one of the reasons I love her so much, why I still feel that shiver when she looks at me, and so I spent the next half hour DIY-ing the doorbell and the following hour nipping down to the post office to collect the parcel. As happy as a sandboy.
That evening we had heart-shaped pancakes for our tea.