“Vexation is coming off me in convection currents”

IT’S 11 pm, and my husband and I are in bed.

“England are 2 nil up in the Ashes but I’d say Australia will probably win tomorrow,” he yawns, rolling over. I let a vexed air fill the room; if my life was a film, I think, its title would be ‘Tinnitus: One Woman’s Story,’ and the musical soundtrack would be, ‘25 Days of Cricket Play Spread Over a 10 Week Period,’ by commentators Agnew and Boycott.

I’m going to impose a new rule on my marriage besides ‘Pick up Your Own Bloody Socks,’ I decide, reaching for my book.

Tonight is the night I’m going to institute the ‘New Soundtrack Rule.’ Tonight I’m going to declare the kitchen a Radio Five Live free zone.

Henceforward, there will be no more ‘Ashes, live from Lord’s’ in the kitchen. No more “Siddle is coming in over the wicket to Cook, who cover- drives off the back foot for four,” at breakfast. No more “Swann’s bowling a leg-breaker, and it’s 105 for 3 chasing 294 in the second innings,” over lunch, and no more “Prior is taking a diving catch to his left after an inside edge” through dinner.

Vexation is coming off me in convection currents now, like a cold chimney-wind.

“New book?” my husband says. It’s amazing, I ponder, how he hasn’t felt the downdraft yet.

He turns over, assuming ‘friendly late-night chat’ position.

“It’s called The Leopard, by Giuseppe di Tomasi Lampedusa,” I say from where I sit, headmistress-stiff, against the bed-head.

“Why are you flicking through it like that?” he says.

“I’m looking for a quote,” I say.

“What quote?”

“The one my sister told me about. I’ll tell you when I’ve found it,” I say. “It’s very pertinent.”

“Pertinent to what?” he says, warily. I think he’s caught that downdraft finally.

“I am crushed,” I announce suddenly, in the manner of the tragic heroine from ‘Tinnitus: One Woman’s Story,’ “crushed by half a century of enforced exposure to mood-music which doesn’t suit my mood.”

“What the..”

“Imagine that you are watching Cinema Paradiso,” I say.

“Lovely film,” he says.

“Now imagine someone forcing you to watch it to the soundtrack of Jaws,” I say, “over and over again for half a century.”

“But…”

“I’m imposing sanctions; no more Radio Five Live in the kitchen. From now on, I’m choosing the soundtrack to my life.”

“But the Ashes only comes round once every two …”

“I know all about ‘once every,’” I say. “I’ve done the ‘once every’ sum. I’ve worked it out. It’s simple arithmetic: you add up all the games, factor in all the once everys and the answer is: never off the bloody radio.

“What kind of sum is that? That isn’t arith…”

“It’s a simple sum,” I say. “You add the rugby world cup to the soccer world cup, plus Wimbledon, plus the Champions League, plus the Tour de France, plus the Ryder Cup, plus the Majors, plus the Premiership, plus the qualifying rounds, plus the Olympics, plus the Community Shield, and then you factor in…”

“The Community Shield hardly counts,” he says, “that’s just a curtain-raiser.”

“Ok,” I say, “subtract the Community Shield.”

“Christ you’ve done your research,” he says.

“Yes, I say, 27 years of it. All enforced. So, I’m implementing a blanket-ban on sport in the kitchen.”

“We’ll see about that,” he says, boffing his pillows.

Silence descends on the bedroom. I think he’s letting an aggrieved, uppity air fill the room.

“Anyway, whaddyyou know about the qualifying rounds?” he says, “and can you stop flicking through that book. I’m trying to get to sleep.”

“I’ve found that quote,” I say.

“Oh god,” he says putting his face into his pillow.

I read, as only a tragic, tinnitus-afflicted heroine could, “’Love: Fire and flames for a year, ashes for thirty.’ ”

Silence descends on the bedroom.

“You’re going to try and get a column out of this, aren’t you?” he mutters, “I just know it.”