Monday, 22 March 2010

I’m still thinking of that bizarre conversation I had the other night with my poor mental friend about Rafael Marquez. Admittedly the grape can cloud my perceptions – if it’s any good, and worth a second glass – but I’m still scratching my head as to what that was about. If there is a type of woman who gets angry about the World Cup qualifying performances of Mexican central defenders, I hadn’t pictured her as one of them. Something isn’t right with that girl. I always thought Marquez was pretty good. I mean, Barcelona aren’t a pub side. Not in this universe, or any other.

I had to physically restrain her to stop her doing the washing up this evening. I can't get over that. We actually wrestled for a moment over control of the dishes. I don't understand where that goodwill came from. I've been a storm cloud the whole time she's been here.

‘You're a good man, Stan,’ she said. Must be some catchphrase from TV, or something - she just tossed it out there and smiled, as if I'd get the joke.

Seriously, I am greatly unsettled by this incident. She is more seriously loopy than I had first imagined. Where did this come from?

Would it be wrong of me to check her bottle of pills when she's out each day, and just check she's depleting them as she should?