Mil's Mailing List Mail #34

(It seems to me that Valentine's Day is perfect for this particular Mailing List Mail.)

Margret was watching one of those intestine-knittingly awful makeover shows on TV the other night. I never watch those things. If I happen to be in the room when one comes on - and I'm too weary from the general, attritional misery of the human condition to get up and do something else or leave - then I'll just stare blankly at the wall and pull at my ear lobe for an hour. (However, the fact that I'm not watching the programme doesn't influence Margret's decision to discuss it with me as it goes along, of course, nor does my never giving any response seem to be a problem: she is perfectly able to carry on a conversation when she's the only one talking - and generally able to have it result in an argument too, for that matter.)

Margret: "That top's not right for her at all is it?"

[Mil sits on the sofa thinking about steganography.]

Margret: "The stripes are good... but I don't like the colours."

[Mil ponders concealing a .jpg within a .gif, within a .bmp: each one a picture of a yet smaller babooshka doll.]

Margret: "Now that just makes her legs look short, doesn't it?"

[Mil considers why he's relating to himself in the third person. And why doing this doesn't alarm him nearly as much as it ought to.]

And so on until the news starts.

However, as we know, Margret was carried from a distant galaxy and left on this planet by aliens with a penchant for practical jokes. What's more, slaves to their puckish prankstering, they made a special point of leaving her in Germany. Thus, a mind not of our world developed within the context of a language invented by the same people who gave us Kraftwerk, Nietzsche and lederhosen. Thus, her words do often manage to hook my attention, irrespective of how hard it is that I'm not listening to them. She achieved this feat during the TV makeover show the other night with this line:
Margret: "Hmmm - she hasn't got many breasts, has she?"

Let's listen to that again: "Hmmm - she hasn't got many breasts, has she?"

Honestly, 'Margret giving an English woman a makeover' is a show I definitely would set the video for.

Leaving that aside (though, trust me, it'll come back to you - haunting your brain like a restless ghost - as you lie awake in bed tonight), allow me to get on with saying what I meant to say in the last Mailing List Mail, but was distracted.

But, before I do that, just a brief - but sweeping - thank you to everyone who responded to my request for neurologists. Unnervingly, an awful lot of people on this List appear to be studying brain damage or aberrant psychology. (For the sake of my peace of mind, I'll put that down to merely a surprising, random coincidence.) Anyway, there were far too many of you to respond to individually, but I do, sincerely, thank every handsome one of you for taking the trouble to write in. The gates are closed now, however, as I'm full to overflowing with offers of information.

Right.

A while ago, Margret and I went to Edinburgh - for the festival. One afternoon we were preparing to walk to a show. Though the odds against it raining (in Edinburgh, in August) are, of course, bewilderingly high, this day clouds were strafing the city sodden. So, as we left the hotel room, I turned to her and said, "Have you got the umbrella?"

"No," she replied. "But I do have my student card."

Do you see? No, you don't.

Whenever I have the urge to segue smoothly from 'tranquil' to 'ignitingly furious', then what I do is simply go to find something in the house that's (a) mine, and (b) always in the same, logical place. Thus, the other day ­ after a prolonged search that had begun at the gentle curve of an eyebrow, and had ended with my hurling drawers shut with shattering force and growling - I said to Margret, "Where's my .mp3 player?" Giving a distracted wave, she responded, "I put it away... It's in the kitchen... In the cupboard above the microwave... At the back, on the right... Behind the flour."

Do you see? No, you don't.

People constantly imagine I have a Mars-Venus perspective: but I absolutely haven't. "All women are like this, and all men like that"? Nonsense. You're telling me that any women would have done that with my .mp3 player? Like Marie Curie's husband was forever finding radium samples filed on top of the wardrobe in a box full of jumpers? Tff. I'm mildly interested in the dynamics of long-term relationships, but I don't assign gender roles. As it happens, Margret reads the road maps, and two Christmases ago my present to myself was an ironing board cover. So, "Nyer." I never say, "The difference between men and women is..." Um... except for now. One time only. Here it is: the difference between men and women - its distilled essence, in 328 words.

I've got this friend. For the sake of discretion, let's call her Emma, and her partner can be Juan. And let's say they live in, oh - Penzance; rather than where they actually live - which is North London. So, my friend tells a story of the moment when, after five years together, she finally knew that it was over. Juan's formerly near-constant sexual desire for her was now far less frequent, and far more moderated by the television schedules. It was almost as though their sex life had to be vetted by TV Choice.

So, she secretly does a striptease course. She trains herself in the Art of the Thong, gets an outfit, and then glides into the room one evening while he's sitting there watching BBC 2.

She begins.

He glances at her absently. At last - when she's wearing nothing but an exasperated expression and a couple of tassels - she says, "Well?"

"What?" he asks.

"What do you mean, 'What?'? I'm here. You're in, mate. I can't really make it more obvious than this."

"Oh, right... Can't you wait a bit? I'm watching Star Trek."

"What the f-... I... Hold on ­ you've seen this episode anyway! It's a repeat, for God's sake!"

"Well... yeah. But it's one of my favourites," Juan replies.

And she's left standing there: embarrassingly bestripped.

An illuminating snapshot of many a relationship five years in. But that's not my point. My point is that I've heard her tell that story many times. If a woman is listening, then that woman will immediately say, "God ­ that's awful. How terrible for you," or, "Oh, Emma. Your self-esteem must have been destroyed. You poor thing."

But, if it's a man there, what is his instant, instinctive reply? Well (for the women reading this ­ the men have the words fidgeting in their heads already), it's always the same thing:

"Hmmm... so - what episode was it?"

That is the difference between men and women.

You may return to your work now.

Mil.

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