HE is sitting on the couch watching TV and I’m there masterfully ignoring both him and whatever is on, while immersed in my book.
It’s a Sunday evening and we’ve moved inside after spending the day out and about.
The couch is shaped so both of us can lie out, he is facing the TV and I am lying facing him, with my book firmly placed between us.
It’s humid and sticky, so we’ve left the patio doors open, and when I do occasionally tear my head away from my book, it’s only to cast an eye over the boats trudging through the water across the bay.
My attention is caught by the ocean: it looks like a thousand diamonds are floating on its surface, as the sun catches every minute flicker of wave.
The TV is a low hum in the background, and I’m lost in thought as I consider my opinion on a racial issue raised in the book ... “Nooooooo, ARE YOU F**KING BLIND REF, ARE YOU?”
He jumps from the couch, practically kicking me in the face as he launches himself at the TV, sending a can of beer flying.
My heart actually skips a beat from shock. “What are you doing?!” I scream at him. He looks a bit surprised as he says: “Sorry, sorry, I forgot you were there.”
“How could you forget I was there, I’m right in front of you?” I shout, as I haul myself off the couch and turn to face the TV, wondering what in God’s name could have demanded such a reaction.
Then I see what’s on. “You can’t be serious,” I snap at him. Honduras are playing Uruguay, or something along those lines, and he is enthralled. It is borderline ridiculous.
I reposition myself on the couch and assume a suitably grumpy expression, which, I hope, says: “I’m annoyed you forgot about me and nearly kicked out my teeth,” but there is no point, because I can tell he really does not care.
I return to reading my book and the room falls silent again, except for the occasional “Ooooh!”.
Sometimes I get nudged, and he says: “Did you see that?” or “Look at that, look at that!” and then I have to turn around while he rewinds some mind-numbingly boring minor incident on Sky Plus (never just once either; it has to be rewound two, maybe even three times) and I ooh and aah in the appropriate places. This is then followed by him heaping reams of exuberant praise on whoever invented Sky Plus.
“I could really get into this World Cup,” he says, and I consider hiding the remote control, but he’s so excited about mediocre, poverty-stricken countries kicking a ball around a field that I just can’t do it to him.
I feel slightly guilty for thinking that thought, so I put my book down and reposition myself on the couch again, this time facing the TV.
I’ll make an effort to care, I think, for the sake of our relationship.
And so we watch a soccer ball being kicked up and down a pitch for hours and hours, and I say things like “the better team is winning”, and when it’s all over I add “the better team won”.
Completely satisfied with my outstanding efforts, I settle back to reading my book, but after a while I hear the familiar sound of a vuvuzela interrupting my thoughts.
I look up and note he has changed the channel ... but there seems to be another game on.
“Are you ... watching the World Cup again on a different channel?” I ask him, as I fix my glasses on my nose. Then I move closer to the TV, because I can’t believe what I’m seeing.
“Em ... those jerseys look really familiar,” I say. “You’re not watching the highlights of the exact same game you just finished watching ten seconds ago, are you?”
“No,” he says sheepishly, and I catch him trying to hide the remote.
“Give me the remote,” I say. “Now.”