The talk
Gah, why is it that when I'm fresh from the gym, sat on the sofa with a beer and watching the documentary on Spitfires I've been looking forward to all week, the female in my life decides that this is the appropriate time for "the talk". These two words cover any subject from her immediate intention to spawn a brood of children to the typical "where are we going as a couple?" discussion.

The teeth gnashingly annoying thing about this is that there is no swift conclusion to "the talk". I will be engaged in delicate negotiation for the next four hours, which probably will involve some or all of my half-interested responses being misconstrued and will definitely involve tears and shouting of some description. It matters not a jot that I might genuinely love the person I'm sat next to. Oh no, my every word or even guttoral snort is dissected ad nauseum.

I have been in relationships where "the talk" has occurred every fucking time I've clicked on the Discovery/History channel and when my resolve has been weakened by a six minute mile having just been run.

It has NEVER taken place midway through Moulin Rouge, My Best Friends Wedding or The Sound of Fucking Music. Not once. I've sat there out of politeness with my will to exist ebbing from my soul, wishing for swift deliverance from the ceaseless effluvial deluge from the screen drowning my soul, to the point where I really do give a fuck about what names we might give the delinquent shits I'll be blackmailed into donating my genes to. At this point in time "the talk" would actually be a weclome diversion. But no dice.

"The talk" always occurs when I am at my most vulnerable.

The response "fuck off, I want to watch the Spitfires" is so easily interpreted as "I cannot see a future for us, we both want such different things from life. By the way, you're fat".

I fail to understand why.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Sat 21 Apr 2007, 0:41, Reply)