Thursday, March 15, 2007

I find it immensely satisfying when I turn out to be right.

On those rare occassions when a hunch of mine pays off or I win a bet (thankYOU where would bet-settling be without you?) I do not respond with a gracious smile. In fact I am more likely to indulge in the universal 'i told you so' dance, possible accompanied by a merry jig and a shit-eating grin.

And now one of my long running hunches - that Andy is in fact a total sook - have been almost fulfilled. For dear Andy has stuffed up his knee quite badly and is now an invalid. And not the stoic kind.

But this time I'm not doing the merry jig of smugness, nor even really belting it out when I come to the difficult bit in the 'i told you so' chorus. I haven't matured or anything but it has occurred to me that Andy's tendency towards laying on the couch and being tended to while demanding colder frozen peas, stronger pain relief and less rank-tasting water makes my own ability to wallow in self pity and make increasingly pathetic demands as soon as I have the hint of a cold look slightly less-pitiable by comparison. Or so I tell myself

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