Tim Dowling: a case of mistaken identity

My wife says she is too tired to go to a?movie with me. She is lying on the?sofa with one eye on the television, looking wan.

"Go without me," she says.

"I don't go to movies by myself," I?say. "Get up."

"Take one of the children, then."

"I very much doubt any of them will want to see it."

"I'm so tired," she says.

I find the oldest one in the kitchen, standing before the open fridge. "There's no food," he says.

"So: you, me," I say, quickly. "Behind The Candelabra, 3.40pm. I'll book tickets, yeah?"

He frowns speculatively. "What's it about?" he says.

"It's about a lot of things," I say.

"Wait, is that the Liberace movie?" He is wary of parental film selection, ever since his mother accidentally took him to see We Need To Talk About Kevin.

"It's been very well reviewed," I?say.

"I'm good, thanks," he says.

I return to the sitting room. "There's no food," I say. "If we went to the 3.40, we could pick up supper on the way back."

"We're going out," she says. "I told you." Suddenly it is my turn to feel tired. I decide not to let my surprise show. We both stare at the television in silence for a while.

"You know you're watching Sky Sports News, don't you?"

"I can't find the thing," she says. "Can you find the thing?"

At 7pm, my wife rises from the sofa and we go out. Our evening has?been arranged to be as non-taxing as?possible: a meal at an Indian restaurant with our friends Sarah and Aaron, then home. In the?restaurant, my wife rallies, invigorated by the prospect of over-ordering. Tiredness envelops me like a cloak, but after two beers it is?alarming how charming I feel. I?describe how sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a child who won't go to see Behind The Candelabra with you in the middle of the afternoon.

Afterwards, as we walk down the?road, it is rather pleasant to feel at once both sated and exhausted. We?stop at the corner in front of Sarah and Aaron's house to say goodbye.

"That was really, really nice," my wife says, pausing to kiss Sarah on one cheek, then the other. "We should do it again soon."

She moves to kiss Aaron on both cheeks. "And I'll call you," she says, "about next week..."

My wife turns and stands in front of me, taking hold of both my shoulders. "It was really good to see?you," she says, kissing me on one cheek. "And next time..." She?kisses me on the other cheek. "We'll have to..."

"Um," I say. "I think I'm coming with you."

She leans back and stares at me. "Oh Christ," she says.

"That was weird," Aaron says.

"It's dark," my wife says. "I told you I was tired."

"I don't get who I'm supposed to be," I say.

"Come on," my wife says, grabbing my wrist. "Let's go."

On the way home, I think about the incident. On the one hand, the experience of being treated like a mere acquaintance by one's spouse is mildly horrifying. On the other hand, the distance implied by such a?casual and unselfconscious show of affection is a little thrilling. The more I think about it, the more I find it to be one of the oddest things ever?to happen to me. For a brief moment, I don't know what to do with my feelings.

"Oh God," my wife says. "I can see?the column now."

Ah, yes, I think.

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Tim Dowling: the 'fun' of the fair

It is the morning of the Fun Day sponsored by The Friends Of The Park Over The Road. As a?presiding officer of that organisation, I wake up feeling weighed down by my annual obligation to embody Fun. Cheer up, I tell myself: Ben Fogle is coming.

My wife, who last year was elected?chairman of the Friends over my head, has moved me from the book stall to the coconut shy, a?demotion that is part of her long-term plan to remove me from the board altogether.

In the morning, I help load up the sound equipment for the portable stage, which is being delivered by the council. As the unpromising weather makes good on its threat, bad news begins to trickle in. Several of the afternoon's entertainments, including the children's choir, have cancelled. The portable stage has broken down a?few streets away.

My wife sends me to a corner of the park with a bin-liner full of tent poles bound together with tape. On the tape, someone, possibly me, has written "COMPLETE BIG GAZEBO". This will be our stage if the stage doesn't arrive.

The stage doesn't arrive. After 20 minutes, I have got only as far as putting quotation marks around the word "COMPLETE". There is no pole 2B, which is meant to form the central roof ridge. There is an extra pole 2A, but it's not long enough. The instructions have blown away.

One of the organisers approaches me, leaning into the wind with an air of urgency. "Will you play the banjo?" she asks.

The roof frame I am holding comes apart in my hands. "What?" I say.

"No one's turned up," she says. "We need someone to do something."

"I can't," I say.

"Please," she says.

When I try to picture myself playing the banjo in the park under a?partial gazebo while Ben Fogle looks on, my vision goes white. The?image has all the elements of a?recurring nightmare. It is quite clearly my wife's idea. I find her by the bric-a-brac.

"Did you tell them I would play the banjo?" I hiss.

"I might have," she replies, "but?you can't shout at me in front of everyone."

The wind strengthens, and the rain begins to come in horizontally. The partial gazebo, which I have bound together with tape, keeps trying to hurl itself into the sky. Dave, who is in charge of the sound equipment, says it's too wet to plug?anything in. Unless the weather gets better, there will be no entertainment at all.

I must be the only member of the Fun Day committee who is silently willing it to rain harder, but my wish is soon granted. The heavens open. The coconuts blow off their stands before anyone can hit them. The sound equipment stays in the van and the partial gazebo hovers four inches above the ground, straining against its guy ropes. Ben Fogle has to stand on a chair to declare the Fun Day open, shouting over the heads of a dozen soaked visitors.

"So, you don't have to play the banjo after all," my wife says. "Is that why you're suddenly so happy?"

"Yes," I say, but it's not the only reason. To my surprise, I find I?prefer the coconut shy to the book stall. Selling damp, surplus reading material to adults is difficult, but defrauding toddlers is easy. They come back again and again, forking over wet coins in exchange for four golf balls and disappointment.

"Do you even like coconuts?" I?ask one. "Because you could have bought a whole sackful by now."

But he doesn't get it.

As the horizon darkens, my mood?improves.

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