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I don't hold with the view that men are rubbish. Men are good at lots of things: lifting heavy objects, cleaning drains, collecting your car when it has been clamped. But men cannot argue. Which is a terrible design flaw, really, considering that when you need a full-blown screaming match, it is generally with your partner (ie, a man).
My husband and I don't argue lots. So, when we do have something to quarrel about, I want it to be good. I need volume, recriminations, the dredging up of old hurts. Women are good at this stuff. If rowing were an Olympic sport (arguing, I mean, not the boating kind), we go for gold. My partner, however, would rather indulge in a more sedate activity such as remote-control flicking. Like most men, he shudders when he senses that his partner is ill of humour.
It usually kicks off with some niggling discontent about his socks/underwear/loose change tossed carelessly onto the bedroom floor. I try to step around it. But as the days progress, his misdemeanor grows into something monstrous, dominating my waking thoughts. Whichever way I turn, I can see his little heap of belongings, mocking me. So I explode. A dropped sock becomes, 'You do not appreciate me'; 'Who cares how I feel?' and, 'Do you give a damn about me at all? Huh?'
By now I am screaming. I have slammed a door and stormed upstairs. I lie on our bed, quietly, expecting him to trundle up after me and humbly apologise. But I do not hear footsteps. What I hear is gentle strumming, and humming. He is playing the guitar. And that is why men and women are basically incompatible. Women are vocal, eloquent beings; if something bugs us, we need to blast off (if we don't, we become martyrs, simmering with silent rage, not unlike our mothers). And men? You give good argument; his communication mechanism shuts down. You yell and cry; he folds up his newspaper and quietly leaves the room.
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