This may very well be one of the strangest if not the strangest retirement blog I’ve ever written. I’ve actually wanted to write it for a long time but I wasn’t sure the ‘market would take it’. The sub-plot is, what is the secret of a happy marriage? Simple enough question but maybe not a simple answer.
What’s also different about it is, although you’re probably not interested, I’m writing it on a very old Samsung Netbook. It must be at least 10 years old. It still works well which is more than you can say for me. No end of typing errors with the different keyboard and my knackered fingers. Still I digress, at least for the moment, but I will return to the clumsiness issue later in the blog.
I think I’m fairly well-qualified to answer the above question about marriage, having been married to Mrs Summerhouse for 48 years and together for well over 50. That said the answer may surprise you, even shock you. I think it particularly applies to those of us of more mature years. I’ll give it you now and then try and explain my choice.
The answer is, be good at swearing or cussing as my American readers might say. You didn’t expect that did you? Let me elaborate. I don’t mean swearing at each other although this can have its charms between consenting adults. I mean that both of you develop, in older age, a broad and rich vocabulary of swear words.
Therapeutic swearing we call it. We use it when we’ve dropped something or have been generally clumsy and stupid in a physical way. Which is quite often these days and it’s very upsetting. A constant reminder of our increasing fragility vis a vis the grim reaper. A torrent of abuse directed usually at some innocent, inanimate object does wonders for anger and frustration. Anger management at a stroke. No need for lengthy training courses.
I mentioned we’ve been watching The Young Offenders on our new Sky Q box. Now this is a programme that takes swearing to new heights or depths if you prefer. It’s following in a long tradition of Irish swearing. Father Ted probably first brought Irish swearing to most people’s notice with a clever use of fecking as opposed to, well you know what. Clever in the sense of getting it past the censors.
I can’t remember the name of the priest’s daily help but she was complaining about the younger generation always using bad language. It’s feckin’ this and feckin’ that and feckin’ the other, she said. And then there was Father Jack.
I think the Irish have a different attitude to swearing than we Brits. For a very Catholic (until recently) and therefore, religious country, it’s quite ironic you might say. Our first introduction to this attitude was years ago. Probably 40 or more years ago. Mrs Summerhouse and I had taken her youngest sister and brother to the land of our ancestors. Theirs and our first visit.
We were walking along a narrow country lane in County Leitrum where their relatives lived. We stepped aside to allow a little old lady on her bike to cycle past. Lovely day, I said as she passed by. She replied, rain, feckin rain, everyday feckin’ rain. And with that she cycled on. I remembered her words over the years and I never fail to smile at the memory, as swearing often makes me do, don’t ask me why. We think the children were too young to understand what she said, at least they never mentioned it again.
I don’t know why I find swearing funny but I am clearly not the only one. Many a stand-up comedian wouldn’t get a single laugh I think if they didn’t lace their act with a great deal of cussing. I know many people find it offensive but then they wouldn’t be there if they felt that way.
Where I don’t find it funny is when it happens in public and the context is wrong or even if it happens when you’re not expecting it. There’s a pub near us in Derbyshire. We use it because it’s convenient. We call it the swearing pub. We sit outside because they don’t let dogs inside. This is the same area where the smokers / workmen congregate. I don’t know whether there is a causal correlation between smoking and swearing but there certainly seems to be some connection in this pub.
We regard ourselves as fairly hardened to swearing but frankly it’s a bit tiresome, Billy Connolly they ain’t. But then we know what we’re going to get if we want a pub drink that’s walk-able, then we know what we’re getting into. So shut the f—k up about it.
What I think must be difficult in a marriage is when one partner likes to swear and the other disapproves. Or if one party is deteriorating physically, getting clumsier, dropping more things, struggling to manipulate whatever, etc. and the other one is not. Hence the need to swear, by my theory. Fortunately, as I have suggested, this is not the case with Mrs SH and I. For good or bad we’re both falling apart at pretty much the same rate. Consequently, we both have recourse to therapeutic swearing at pretty much the same level.
So that’s my theory as to why we’re still quite happily together over fifty years and more. In fact since we first met when I picked her up at the bus-stop outside art college in response to a bet made by my chum, that I wouldn’t. I think I can safely say I did not say anything along the lines of, heyup duck, do you want a fucking lift or shall I just piss off?
My advice to the young, hoping for a long-lasting relationship, is to ease into this swearing business gently and make sure you’re both on the same f—ing page.