It’s best not to make an enemy of Claudia, a young woman of Romanian descent who happens to work in my office. While she is good company, has an attractive personality, and can speak a variety of languages that might be of use if you are either trekking in the Andes or require a visa in Tashkent, she also possesses, I can reveal, a voice that might sink a ship at 400 yards, a glance that will leave you whimpering in a corner, and a right hook that has done for better men than me on more than one occasion.
We are, I think, friends, although immediately after our first meeting, I took out a life insurance policy that, if it cannot cover acts of god, does cater for acts of women, (which may well be the same thing). I also changed my name, moved house, and began taking a variety of little known Far Eastern self-defence courses. And all I’d said to her was ‘hello’…
I think it is safe to say, albeit from behind a large sofa, that I do not know of a single man who actually understands the female sex. I have come to the conclusion that all women should come with a warning, possibly a small tattoo that says something along the lines of:
‘Danger! Do not touch! Do not feed! Avert eyes at all times!’ Abandon hope all yea who enter here!’
It seems to me that they should also be provided with their own individual instruction manual taking you from initial contact, onto that first dinner together, then meeting with her parents, the signing over of all your worldly goods, and right through until that certain moment when they decide that you are to be replaced by a more up to date version. Of course, the publication in question would probably require numerous volumes and consist mainly of warnings and disclaimers.
‘If you choose to be involved with this model, the makers cannot be held responsible for any hospital bills accrued or mental instability brought on by continuous exposure.’
‘Please note that shoes have a finite, and necessarily short, life and must be replaced at regular intervals’.
“In the case of a malfunctioning female, IT IS ALL YOUR FAULT, and you must accept the consequences’.
‘Please remember that, by design, women are always right. Men are constructed in a way that makes them generally incompetent, and any who do not share this attribute must be returned to the maker for a full refund.’
In return, perhaps men should carry a small card with a reminder…
‘When our product has outlived its use, please dispose of this shell of a male carelessly but in an ecologically sound way.’
It’s difficult to understand why we choose to align ourselves with any particular woman when the invisible rules and regulations which accompany each and every relationship are rewritten by our partner as and when it suits her. It can hardly be a coincidence that men generally live for a shorter time than women, (although it probably feels longer).
And yet, despite the pain that love, lust and shopping for furniture at IKEA can bring, do we actually have a choice? You see, I am more and more beginning to accept that, as a man, (and I do use the term very loosely), relationship decisions are decided upon, if not by individual women, then by a panel of ‘friends’.
Last week I attended a wedding of an old chum, an aging juvenile lead who had moved to Germany, fallen for a tall blond with powerful parents, and decided to align himself with this family for better or for worse. Oh, and I almost forgot, he loves the lady in question too, and I believe that she tolerates him, which is as much as we can expect.
Now, German weddings seem to be a snapshot of life in the Teutonic world. Endless drinking of (not at all bad) wine, large meals of deep fried meat with a minimal amount of barely cooked vegetables, strange costumes for both bride and guests, (lederhosen anyone?), and long, rambling speeches that may or may not suggest the invasion of Poland and annexing of the southern parts of the Czech Republic. It all went swimmingly, and no doubt this was due in no small part to the director of operations, a kind of Medusa from Munich taking the role of what we call the Maid of Honour across the channel.
She did not wear a uniform or carry a riding crop, but there was a power and purpose to this lady that brought to mind the finer moments of the Ring Cycle, especially the little known sections, now rarely performed, that involve sticks with spikes, hot pokers and the rack. If only there had been a suit of bronze armour available, this fine representative of the female race would surely have buckled herself into it, jumped on a white stallion, and driven all men back across the Styx never to return.
As the days wore on…all right, as the hours wore on, (it was a German wedding after all), we mere males became more and more enthralled by this Amazon as she patrolled the room, checking for subversives and gently leading them to a sort of twilight zone by the lake where they were shown the error of their ways and then sold to wealthy Bavarian families for use as hat stands or draught excluders. It also became clear that the wedding would not have been allowed if this latter day Brünnhilde and her followers had decreed otherwise. She was the power behind the throne, and at this time of all times, her words were law.
The wedding went like clockwork, and a small profit was made by the auctioning of certain individuals who had performed various acts of rebellion, such as requesting a small green salad, drinking red wine with white meat, or being found in possession of a sense of humour. And the next day, the survivors, we happy few, were even allowed a five minute start before the dogs were released to ensure we left the property. It was a truly invigorating experience, and the doctors say my chances of recovery are quite good.
I am leading a solitary life at the moment, and while I am not averse to finding myself at the beck and call of a (very) particular woman, especially if she has a taste for wine, a smile that lights whatever room she happens to be in, and moves in that extraordinary way that leaves you in need of a cold shower whenever she passes by, I am a little worried about being judged by her panel of like minded women. I’ve done it before and failed miserably. I should have known then that I was doomed to failure. If only I’d accepted the decision as final instead of appealing to a higher authority. When it comes to women there is no higher authority and it simply delayed my inevitable descent into the abyss.
And so I ask again, do men have a choice? I still don’t know, but the next time I find myself staring into someone’s eyes, my glass half full and the bottle near to hand, I shall ask her advice, and if she insists on my being judged by her weird sisters, so be it, I shall take my chances. There might only be the slight possibility of surviving such an ordeal but you only live once. I may be a lost cause, but I won’t give up quite yet. Now, where’s my warranty card?
