In the evening my wife generally reads. At the moment she is reading Henri Troyat’s biography of Tolstoy. She isn’t just satisfied to read, but identifies with the individuals mentioned and brings them into our lives. Tolstoy, according to Troyat and Marie, was a horrible man. His long suffering wife, Sophia, runs the estate while Tolstoy writes his books, lives like a peasant, believes in sex only for procreation and feels holy as he ponders the great questions of existence. The Tolstoys have twelve children, and Sophia also copies his manuscripts and inserts his corrections. At the moment Marie identifies with Sophia.

“What are you going to do today?” Marie asks.

“I’m going to study the Chinese Enlightenment for Yiyan’s project. I’m also going to study four genera of fungi for the mycological society and possibly write a letter.” With thunderclouds gathering I retain sufficient instinct for self-preservation not to mention the computer and OLO.

“I mean. What are you actually going to DO?” Marie has told me about Tolstoy and his long-suffering wife. After briefly considering suicide I get up, for recycling take apart the mango box, dry the frames for the fruit-drying machine, uproot the asparagus fern (Asparagus aethiopicus) growing around the bird bath and do the grocery shopping. Now I am sufficiently differentiated from Tolstoy to go back to the computer.

Marie has done two loads of washing, made breakfast and lunch, planned supper, boiled and pickled beetroot. Her bookmark is placed almost 2/3 of the way through the book. Tolstoy will be leaving us soon.

“You love the computer more than you love me.” “You don’t do anything around the house.” “You don’t talk to me enough.” Those are my wife’s three main complaints. What are your spouses’ complaints about you?

Hahaha… my spouse recently appears unhappy that I am not of high enough prestige or rank in the online game Evony (server 33) to help him out now that he has formed an Alliance that consists of him and me (the newbie).


Back in the real world… he wouldn’t dare complain about a damn thing.

Delightful, david f
Tolstoy was indeed an opinionated fellow--he hated Shakespeare with a passion--but addictive to read. I think I've read his entire output, including War and Peace twice. I'm always struck by his excoriating authorial voice booming above the narrative.

My first wife's disposition was wholly unsuited to mine; she was ultra-conservative, and I've always been a radical (glorified fault-finder). Our epic clashes, then, ensued either from my being sarcastic or critical of her, or from her constantly seeking to reform me. These attempts at reform were doomed to fail, however, so she resorted instead to superimposing a socially acceptable exterior. Thus, whenever we were thrown among family, friends, or even the great unwashed, I was invariably cautioned to "mind my P's and Q's". This gratuitous refrain irritated me no end. But that was not all; generally, as we were about to sally forth, having completed my indifferent toilet, she would ask, "are you wearing 'that'?". "No, dear", I would retort, "I'm just trying it on"!
Ours was the unhappiest of unions, though my wife could not be persuaded that it was so.
Therefore I aver that whatever other feelings obtain between two parties intent on becoming one, be sure that your politics are congenial!

My partner's occasional complaints about me generally stem from my god-like influence over the elements and animals - particularly when I'm away from home, which is when I arrange for unseasonal gales and frosts in my absence, and for our domestic animals to develop wanderlust and go walkabout.

The more frequent complaints derive from my absolute refusal to reduce the number of books in my study (and elsewhere...)

Did somebody mention the amount of time they spend on the computer?

Davidf,

My wife has only 2 complaint about me.......Everything I do and everything I don't do.
And me, My complaints of here.......err nothing dear.

Boom boom an oldie but a goodie.
Cheers ;-)

Dear David f,

My husband's basic complaint about me is the fact
that I'm not adventurous enough. I'm not a very
good traveller - whereas he is, has a cast iron
stomach, and loves to be on the move, discovering
new places, new people, new adventures. If he could
he'd spend his life travelling. I'm more of a home-body.

Also at present we've got family commitments that we
just can't pack up and leave. I know that he's itching
to 'get away from it all ASAP - but at present we just
can't. And, I know he finds it all very frustrating.