VANITY FAIR

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 72, Issue 198, 21 August 1929, Page 2

VANITY FAIR

“Chronicle" Office, Wanganui, , August 21, 1929. Margot isn’t ordinarily a believer in the theory—held I>J) so many kind-hearted and Ifiltenish maidens —that a man is brought into the world for the express purpose of allowing women to “mother" him. But there drifted into the "Chronicle" office to-day so pale and Wan a wreck °f manly vigour that Margot thought instinctively of carpet slippers, ice, and Worcester sauce toned down with cayenne pepper. It so happened that she was wrong. The man pul one hand to his brow and another to his fifteenth vertebra and said Wearily, “I've been moving," Margot made dim, cooing sounds which, in the best circles, are intended to represent commiseration. "You’re right,” said the man bitterly. "Too right you are. Moving hadn't ought to have been allowed. Or, if a man has to move, he shouldn’t have a wife. The two together are a little more than the best of us—and I flatter myself that means me—can possibly bear.” “I don’t see," Margot said, "the objection to a wife." “Oh, you don’t, don't you?" said the man. ‘ln that case, it’s a pity you weren’t somewhere in the offing or thereabouts, when we moved. “The carrier’s van and I went to the new house first. My wife couldn't possibly arrive until after dinner. So, thinking that after all, men must work while Women buy spring hats, I decided to get the place shipshape. Without wishing io boast, 1 have an eye for effects, and by the time I’d driven a nail clean through my thumb, acquired a bruise as big as a dinner plate through falling off a ladder, made the cuckoo in the clock think that Spring was permanently here by dropping a match near a bottle of benzine, and smashed the beautiful black marble vase which mJ) mother-in-law gave me on my wedding day, the little place looked a picture. Just like the sort of house you see in the advertisements, with “Why girls leave home” written underneath. Anyhow, along came my wife, wearing a new hat and carrying two or three more under her arm —the difference between a woman and a hydra is so small as to be imperceptible—and bless my soul, or more eloquent words to that effect, if she didn’t screw up her nose and say, “Everything will have to be changed around, George—and at once.” “And the fuss about that black marble horror. I’ve been the cat three times and knocked if off the mantelpiece, but it never would break. I had to hit it over the head with a hammer. . . and then my wife doesn’t appreciate all, or any, of the trouble I took-" Women are just a little unappreciative, at times. On a soft and sympathetic note, MARGOT.