SANDY
“Robert!” she screamed. I always knew I was in deep trouble whenever she called me Robert. “There’s sand all over the kitchen floor AGAIN.”
I knew I was in for another ritual ear bashing. She had never actually hit me but I was sure she’d been tempted on many occasions.
I’d been playing tennis, as I usually did on Sunday mornings. Just a social couple of hours with a real mixture of people and skill. I love it. No pressure. I try out audacious shots I never attempt in a match. Always have a laugh. High fives when net cords dribble over the net. Shouts of “Great shot” when the ball bounces off the frame of the racket at an impossible angle. Not the done thing in proper tennis circles.
I don’t like playing on the hard courts much. The ball bounces higher and slower and the surface plays havoc with my knees. I much prefer the all-weather courts. There are six in all but we can only use two on Sundays. Sometimes they are a bit like a beach. Sand gets everywhere. You can’t help it. In your trainers, in your socks, between your toes. But it means a faster, livelier game. I’m no Andy Murray but I always go home thinking about a shot I’ve played or a chat I’ve had with one of the others, often James, a Man City fan.
I drive home a happy man, ready to tell Karen about my morning, the topspin lob I’ve played or the double-handed backhand I tried out but never have the guts to play any other time. Why I ever tell her about the football chats I’ll never know. She occasionally feigns an interest in my team, Stoke, but she’s really got no interest in sport whatsoever.
“How did Stoke do today, Bob?” she sometimes casually asks, often when we’ve got visitors, and often when they’ve lost.
She’d never played anything seriously, apart from her violin. We tried playing tennis together once on some public courts. She thought it was funny when she missed the ball altogether or hit it onto the next court where they were playing a serious match. Never again.
Anyway, when I got home after tennis, I usually parked the car, got my bag from the boot, walked to the back door, went into the kitchen and took off my trainers.
That Sunday was no different. I should have learnt but I honestly didn’t think about it. I’d had a great morning, beating one of the better players in the club for the first time ever. He’d even complimented me on my return of serve. I was still thinking about it when Karen came in.
“How many times do I have to tell you,” she shouted angrily. “Take your shoes off before you get in the house. You know it drives me nuts.”
We’ve been through this many times before. I’ve tried to explain that if I take my shoes off it wouldn’t make any difference as my socks are full of sand too.
“Take your bloody socks off as well,” she retorted.
“But then it’s on my feet and between my toes,” I said despairingly.
“Well bloody well wash them before you come home and change your socks and take another pair of shoes with you. How can you be so bloody thoughtless?”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said, “you’re making a fuss about nothing.”
Not a good plan. There followed a long list of all the other irritating habits I’d developed over our ten years of married life.
”You leave your dirty clothes on the bedroom floor, worst of all your pants. You still haven’t learned to squeeze toothpaste from the bottom of the tube. You forget to put the toilet seat back down after you’ve had a pee. You stack the dishwasher in the most anal way possible. You’re constantly scratching your head watching tele. And you still haven’t done anything about your bloody snoring. That’ll do for starters,” she’d said on that occasion. More would come later.
I was never going to do what she’d suggested. We didn’t have a proper clubhouse with changing rooms and showers so the idea of changing my shoes and socks on court would have made me a laughing stock. James and I had discussed it.
“I’ve had the same problem, mate,” he assured me. “Even though Sue plays herself she still gives me grief if I forget to go through the routine. Take your trainers off by the back door, knock ‘em together. Then your socks. Give ‘em a good shake then go in the house barefooted. It works for me.”
It didn’t work for me. I do try. Honestly I do. But sometimes I just forget and sometimes there’s enough sand on my feet to ensure another row. Even when I get out the brush and shovel and sweep the floor with meticulous care, Karen still seems to find sand. I’d once read a book to try to find some sort of compromise. “Don’t sweat the small stuff,” I think it was called. It made me think there are more important things in life than sand on the kitchen floor and squeezing toothpaste from the bottom of the tube. I read her some bits from the book.
“You should read it,” I said.
“It’s written by a bloke,” she snorted. End of debate? No chance, there were plenty more miles in this small stuff. “You don’t get stuff much smaller than sand,” I said to myself and waited until the next onslaught.