Mrs Mac running the control room

Peter McQuarters

With it being practically 40 years to the day since the subject of this column entered my life, it is timely perhaps to address a strange phenomena which has perplexed me for much of that time.

To put it plainly, I am married to a woman who appears to have an inexplicable Bluetooth connection to my mind.

I was going to say brain, but that would be way too generous and makes the assumption I do actually have one.

Over the years there have been many strange instances where she, without doubt, reads my very inner thoughts and motives.

It has caused me to reflect, when I allow my thoughts to wander there, that basically she has been “placed” in my life to keep me on track for my own good, but on the other hand, sometimes it has been pretty hard to reconcile that.

Really, when it comes down to it, I am starting to look at it all as a bit of a real life Truman Show and that, up above the clouds, there are people in a control room and I am just a bit player, fulfilling a role, and they have planted Mrs Mac in my life as part of their social experiment.

That must be it.

It’s gotta be it.

How else do you explain something that happens fairly regularly.

My thoughts will turn to something random and totally unrelated to what we may have been talking about.

Then “presto” she will weigh in with a comment about that very thing.

Right at that very time.

It happens . . . lots.

It’s freaky.

I swear when she looks at me and her face develops a shallow wry smile, she is reading my eyes like a teleprinter.

I can do nothing, not be any-where, without her innate sixth sense working overtime.

She has it all covered.

She seems to know me better than I know myself.

Us blokes aren’t generally wilfully dishonest to our other halves but, sometimes, it’s just desirable to be a little discreet so as not to attract any unwarranted grief.

Such was the modus operandi quite recently when I decided to avail myself of another model for my classic vehicle collection.

By no means a big ticket purchase, but I thought I would transfer it from the car, to the house at a time when the antennae would be tuned elsewhere.

And save any mild drama.

So first thing I do is go out to the car . . . and the carton is not there!

Being a catastrophist, I assume immediately that thieves have burgled my vehicle overnight and removed a small tin fire engine.

Left everything else, but flogged my new miniature fire truck.

Cos that’s exactly what thieves are looking for right?

I know, sounds ridiculous now, but in the moment!

Truth was, I’d walked out and left it at the shop.

See why I questioned the brain bit?

Anyway, I sort that out, retrieve it and it’s now in the car.

Following a meal, she’s seated comfortably on the couch watching the news, I’ve got the dishes sorted and I think to myself, “now is the time”.

Now is the time I shall carry out my nonchalant, no-attention-seeking, extremely casual process of transferring the said carton from the car and into the garage.

I quietly disappear and all seems to be going well.

As I head out the door a quick but not obvious glance over my shoulder reveals she is still engaged in the news.

I transfer said package from the car in the driveway to the garage and place it on the bench.

Discreetly and very quietly I begin to silently release the sticky tape encasing the goods when I hear from my right-hand side, my deaf side, “aaannd WHAT do we have here???”

Incredulous, like a possum caught in headlights, I’m thinking a thousand thoughts in a single heartbeat.

But chiefly amongst them, “How the HELL did you know?”

Her formidable presence, silhouetted in the doorway, is now permanently etched on my psyche.

Clear evidence again that there’s a plot from above and I am the hapless subject of it.

The people in the control room upstairs above the clouds, watching on their hidden cameras in my home, work, everywhere, blue-toothed her the details and she was immediately on to it.

I am totally at the mercy of others.

In February 1980, 40 years ago exactly, the scriptwriters placed her in my life and it’s all been out of my control since then.

Either that, or she’s the husband whisperer.

– By Peter McQuarters

 

Broadcaster Peter Mac is Ashburton born and bred and the afternoon host on the

Hokonui Radio Network.

The views expressed in this column are his and do not reflect the opinion of his employer or the Ashburton Guardian.

 

 

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