Hothead

Hubby can be such a hothead. He was one when he was 20 and at 50 he’s still one.

It all started quite peacefully on Christmas day when we phoned our daughter. She’s doing a gap year in the Australian outback so it’s difficult to get hold of her but she’d investigated where best to get a signal so we could chat. Despite having to hang over the edge of a balcony so that she could get reception, she sounded happy. Towards the end of the conversation she started to sound tearful. This is her first year away from us over Christmas. She’d also celebrated her 21^st birthday on the 21st December, so it was a double whammy.


I heard a growl from the man sitting next to me whose protective streak had lifted its head and started to prowl back and forth. After much light-hearted banter back and forth we said goodbye and hubby proceeded to entertain us with his wit and humour for the rest of the day to cheer us up.

Today daughter phoned in tears as she’d checked her UK bank account online for the first time since she’d left in April and there were a few problems. Of course, nothing is too difficult to sort out, but it was nevertheless a shock to her.

That was when hubby’s primal protective streak surged to the fore. The Neanderthal caveman chest-beating started as he roared his anger. The civilised part of me frowned, but the primitive part of me went all hot and quivery, as my legs wobbled – swoon.

You know, if I was the queen of some far away land all and there was a slight skirmish on one of my borders, all I’d do was put hubby on a horse, place a sword in his hand, point him in the right direction and he’d do the rest. He’d come back some time later with a satisfied but sheepish grin on his face as he realised that, once again, his passionate nature had taken him over.

But as I’m not queen of some far away land I simply gave him all the details and pointed him in the direction of the bank. I didn’t, as you might have noticed, give him a sword. I think that might have been courting trouble. He did come back with a satisfied smile and everyone is happy now, except maybe the bank manager who is probably wishing he’d gone on holiday.

Queen Karen and her one-man army signing off.

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