Towards the end of my first post on Anglophilia, I stated that my wife accused me of being an Anglophile because of my admiration for British cars, motorcycles, etc.
She read that post.
She laughed, which is good.
She wouldn’t stop teasing me about it.
Which is bad.
And so I had to have my revenge.
It’s a dish best served cold, as you know, so I had to wait; while I waited, I did some investigating.
She’s always read Shakespeare; no, that won’t do.
“84 Charing Cross Road” is one of her favourite films, but that wouldn’t work, either, because I like it, too.
On one of our first dates, I took her to see “Remains of the Day”, and at the ending she cried—I kid you not—for forty-five minutes.
At the time, I was very scared and thought, “This (expletive deleted) is crazy!”
And I teased her about it for years, so I couldn’t use that incident to my advantage, either.
I don’t watch much television.
So I keep the television downstairs.
The other day, I heard a sound.
It was an English accent on the TV.
I crept downstairs and found my wife watching some god-awful film version of some god-awful Jane Austen novel. (I’ve never actually read Jane Austen, I’m sure she was brilliant.)
“Aha! Now who’s the effing Anglophile?”
She didn’t even look at me.
“You are,” she said.
“Ah, can I sit down here?”
Still no eye contact.
She paused the film and said, “What do you want to watch?”
“We can watch this. I promise I won’t say a word.”
“Horseshit. You’ll go five minutes before you start putting on an English accent and making fun of the film, and I like this story, and I want to watch it. Now go upstairs and get drunk, and fall asleep as quick as you can. Culchie.”
Can’t argue with that.
I’m not so good at revenge.
At least I got a good night’s sleep.