A little while ago it was my fortieth birthday. My wife told me she had a night planned in the city. With the kids at a not altogether spontaneous sleep over we packed an overnight bag (and an assortment of vibrators I noted) and drove into the motel. We checked in rather late, perhaps 5pm, and while the hotel staff took our bag upstairs we headed to the bar for a drink. She ordered a cocktail while I opted for whisky on ice. It had been a busy start to the year, my work was largely from home, hers at the local university (research not teaching staff) was still open for non-class activities. There was a so much more to a University than classes it’s easy to forget.
We had a meal in the restaurant, fish for her (a nice, light option I was relieved to find – although why I would doubt we were having copious amounts of sex this evening I don’t know). I went with the lamb. She ordered the wine and directed the waiter for a top up.
You don’t need to ply me with alcohol I said.
“Maybe it’s not for you..”
I stare at her. Why? What’s up?
“Not a what. A who”