WHY WILL SHE DO IT?

Auckland Star, Volume LVII, Issue 37, 13 February 1926, Page 36

WHY WILL SHE DO IT?

MY WIFE'S SHORTCOMINGS. GROWL OP A HUSBAND. Why does my wife always lose her purse when the milkman knocks at the door? writes "A Husband" in the Glasgow "Post." "I had it just now," she says, and then beams a frantic search on the dresser, on" the mantelpiece, in the cupboards— everywhere. I don't know whether she loses it every morning, but I know she does every Sunday, because I'm at home during Sundays, and am expected to join in the search. Usually I find it—on one of the beds, or somewhere like that. It can't be that she is careless with money —because she isn't. But for some unknown reason she leaves her purse about anywhere, and never by any chance remembers. And all the while the search is on she leaves the door unanswered with the poor milkman standing there getting cold. And then, when she does find it, she sends mc to face him! I do wish she wouldn't. So far as money generally is concerned she is very good. She never asks mc for any, not even for a new hat. She's got a far beter way than that. "I saw Mrs. Brown out in her new bat to-day, dear," she'll say without warning. "Hni?i' That is my pretty safe anBwer. "She said her husband bought it for her because he thought her old one was getting shabby." I maintain a discreet silence. "Mr. Brown told her he hates to think her hat looks old. You know, I can't stand that woman. She was looking at my last year's thing all the while, and I didn't know what to say." Well, hang it all, a man can't have his wife lost for something to say just over a new hat, and ■ Of course, the whole point is she generally meets Mrs. Brown just after I've won the football sweep, and —well, I wish she didn't follow football quite so closely. Then there's the question of the man. next door. He's a marvel is that chap. The things he does for his wife. From what my wife tells mc, he's rebuilt the house inside, and never needs to be asked to do anything. Puts up shelves, shifts cupboards, makes tables, papers the walls —and goes to work in his ■pare time. It's fine to know there are such people in the world, but I do wish my wife wouldn't talk about him. It leads to had feeling. I had a burning ambition to meet the man next door and tell him. what I thought of him. One day I did meet him, and over a glass of something he confided that it had always been his burning ambition to meet mc, just to see if I had a halo round my head. Apparently my wife had been describing mc to Mrs. Nextdoor. I still have to listen to glowing accounts of what the man next door has done, only nowadays I smile, and the wife always asks mc what I am smiling at. I wish she wouldn't do that; it makes mc feel awkward. Another thing I wish she wouldn't do is ask mc questions about dress. Once upon a time I always told her if I had met a friend in the street, but nowadays I never mention it.. Should it happen to slip out, however, I know I am in for it. What kind of a hat did she have on? What colour was she wearing? Was it green, that doesn't suit her, although she likes it? Did it look new? Waa it smart, or last year's done up? Of course, I can't answer. No man could —but that doesn't prevent heir opinion of mc dropping lower than ever. While we're on this subject of dress, why on earth does she ask mc to hold wool for her while she rolls it into a ball? Oh, how I wish she wouldn't! I never do it right. Either I hold it too tight, so that it won't come off my hands, or too loose, so that it will—two or three strands at a time. Either my hands are pointing up too much, or down too much. Besides, is there any more ridiculous position for a man to get into? I ask you. And if one of my pals happens to call round she shows him straight in, and asks him if he doesn't think I'm patient. Brrr! Then there's shopping. I'm not going to say I wish she wouldn't ask mc to go shopping with her, because only too many husbands have said that sort of thing before, and it's had no effect. Husbands ought to go shopping with their wives, and that's all there is to it. But I do wish she wouldn't pay mc out for refusing to go' Into the shop with her by spending two or three hours inside. In the days when I used to go in I eat and squirmed hecauge she made the shopman show her everything in the shop and then said she'd go somewhere else. How she could do it I don't know. Nowadays, if she goes in for a reel of cotton, she takes half-an-hour over it. Of course, she makes the assistant show her all the latest jumpers first —she must do —and when she comes out, she always asks mc if she's been long. If there's anything I wish she wouldn't do, it's that. Of course, there are a few other things. I wish she wouldn't wonder if she'd turned the gas out under the kettle when we're a mile from home. That she wouldn't think of a hundred things to do at the last minute when we're going out. That she wouldn't hear noises in the night. That she wouldn't tell mc that I wanted a haircut, in front of other people. And, finally, that she wouldn't look over my shoulder when I'm writing. She's just asked mc if I'm sure I've got enough paper!