Nice
‘Chance! The first opportunity of the match falls to Chelsea and it's a good one, too. Matic floats a ball over the Spurs defence and Vertonghen is playing Hazard onside…’
Rob nearly choked on his Carling while punching the air with his other hand, “Yes! Yes! Come on the Blues!”
Then, ‘… It falls invitingly for him in the penalty area but he drags his left-foot volley wide of Lloris's post.’
Rob slumped back in his armchair shaking his head. Then, 50 inches of HD and surround sound brought him, full of hope, to the edge again:
‘Chance! Rose's floated free kick finds Dier at the back post and he has the chance to get in a free header. It's a decent connection but Courtois is able to make the fairly comfortable save.’
Half-time. Rob, at first, sank back into his chair. Up until then he had been ignoring the grumbling sounds coming from the dining table. He strained his neck to see what his wife was up to. Amanda sat hunched over a newspaper looking dejected:
“What’re you getting worked up about, luv?”
“Rob” she started, clearly exasperated, “D’ya think I’m nice? Be honest.”
“Nice? What’re you talking about? ‘Nice’ is a bit of an understatement darling. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me… a diamond... I don’t know what I’d do without you and that’s a fact!”
“Go back to your football” she frowned at him over her glasses before jabbing her finger at her paper, “It’s this blooming article… basically, it says here that nice people are more successful. I must be doing something wrong, because I’m certainly not earning more money!”
“What you on about? There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re a star.”
“If I’m so nice why aren’t I more successful? Earning more money? What am I doing wrong? What am I missing?
“Give me that.” He reached over grabbed the paper and scanned the article: “Hmm . . . Research . . .leading expert at blah, blah, blah . . . found that nice people are more likely to succeed in life because they have high levels of emotional intelligence . . . you’ve lost me already . . . blah, blah, blah they say that they are happier, healthier, better at coping with stress – and make more money.’”
“The research showed that those who identified as nice were highly agreeable – that’s you - had high empathy – don’t know what that is - and compassion – definitely you - high self-ratings of altruism – yes I agree: it’s all true.
“What a load of old cobblers! And by the way, being well-off has nothing to do with how nice you are – or aren’t!”
Too late, he knew he’d said the wrong thing from his wife’s glum look.
“I’m tired… I’m going to bed” she said. She tore out the article and left it on the table. This was a signal Roy couldn’t ignore:
“Great”, he thought to himself, “she’s not gonna let this go… I’ll have to think of something.”
He noticed Amanda’s tote bag lying open on the floor next to the table, exposing her monthlies. Roy tutted: he failed to understand why she would willingly waste money on all those magazines. He picked up the bag and placed it on the sofa. He decided to turn in while he was still feeling Chelsea’s pain at losing 2-0 to Tottenham.
***
The following morning, Roy found Amanda in the kitchen preparing breakfast.
“Mornin’ luv” she smiled weakly at him. “I’ve done us some bacon and eggs on toast.”
“Nice!” he said enthusiastically. “I’ll make some coffee.” Conversation was dominated by the clink of cutlery against plates, and the clunk of mugs on the table’s surface. Finally, Amanda placed her knife and fork together at five twenty-five on her plate and drew the article of the previous day to herself and started to re-read it. She gave a big sigh. Roy saw his chance:
“Look, luv,” he reached across and placed a reassuring hand on her elbow “Generally speaking are you happy with your life?”
“Well I was until I read this!” She retorted, flicking the page.
“Oh come on, luv,” he said. “I thought you knew better than to take notice of these random articles. You know as much as I do that success isn’t measured in how much money you earn.”
“Yes it . . .” She caught herself just in time. She looked up at her husband one eyebrow raised. He had always been happy in his job – the most highly skilled - not to mention - respected amongst his colleagues. Yet he had turned down a promotion years ago. It wasn’t worth the hassle, he’d said, not for any amount of money. But then his aim wasn’t to be a manager, or business owner; his aim was to be the best cog in that wheel. And he certainly was.
“ Look at all the things you’ve done over the years . . . before and after we met – by the way that’s what attracted me to you – your energy . . . you’re definitely a doer . . . you say and you do.”
She seemed to brighten up a bit. But he wasn’t finished. He got up and went over to the sideboard. He rummaged in one of the draws finally finding what he was looking for. Settling next to his wife again, he said:
“Tell you what, why don’t you make a list of all the things you’ve done over the years?” sliding a pen and some sheets towards her.
“How’s that gonna help?” she protested whilst at the same time picking up the pen and arranging the sheets. “I’m telling you, it’ll be a very short list!”
“Well let’s see shall we?” He sat back in his chair, arms folded, waiting for her to start writing.
She looked at her husband thoughtfully:
“How come you know so much Doctor?”
He tapped the side of his nose and winked at her.
“OK, you may go now.” she said waving him away with one hand.
“Of course luv . . . I’ll do some shopping . . . See you later then.”
***
Over the next couple of weeks Rob was pleased to see that his wife seemed a lot happier; Hmm, he thought looks like making a list was a good idea. He was chuffed at the part he played in it. At the same time, he couldn’t put his finger on it, but she seemed to be up to something. She was making changes around the house – nothing unusual about that – nothing major. He’d find her leafing through old photo albums; rummaging through her wardrobe then taking various items to the charity shop; she finally put up that painting she did, inspired by the Tuscan hills; in the kitchen, she shifted things around. Well, if it made her happy he wasn’t going to interfere.
One day she asked him to knock a couple of hooks in the wall in the kitchen – above the empty space left by the microwave. He obliged wondering what she was going to put there. He asked, but his query was met with a secretive smile. That night, he was woken by his wife getting up to go to the bathroom. In his drowsiness he was aware of her moving around but just turned over and went back to sleep. The next morning he went into the kitchen. Yawning, he reached up, opening a cupboard, and took out a mug. He set it down on the counter top below and did a double take. Suddenly wide-awake thanks to the riot of colour and action staring him in the face: a large noticeboard hanging on the wall between fridge and the relocated microwave. Setting his mug to one side, he leaned on his elbows to study the photos, the Michael Jackson ticket stub, postcards, ribbons, newspaper articles spanning decades. His wife appeared at his side:
“What d’ya think?” She asked resting her chin on his shoulder.
“It’s A-MA-ZING!” He replied kissing her on the forehead. Delighted by his surprise at her ‘mood board’, she talked animatedly about her achievements: volunteering locally, graduating from university, swimming with dolphins in Florida, climbing mountains in Zakopane, skiing in the French Alps, backpacking in New Zealand, teaching in a lycée, their wedding day.
“You were right”, she said, nodding at her board “I’d forgotten about a lot of the things I’d done. And I’m proud of them all. This board is a reminder that I’m an achiever, not a loser.”
“That’s my girl.” Rob wrapped his arms around her “I might do one.” he teased. “I’d better get ready for work.”
“Not so fast, sunshine.”
Rob looked at his wife quizzically.
“I think you have something of mine? I know you took it out of my bag.”
Laughing, Rob held out his wrists. He’d been rumbled.
“Two ticks.” He said and wandered over to his armchair. He plunged his arm down one side and drew out a magazine.
“There you go, luv . . . great read that.” He said handing her a copy of Psychologies.
“Thank you, - she said laughing, and. . . Thank you.”
©Danielle Chinnon 2017
Rob nearly choked on his Carling while punching the air with his other hand, “Yes! Yes! Come on the Blues!”
Then, ‘… It falls invitingly for him in the penalty area but he drags his left-foot volley wide of Lloris's post.’
Rob slumped back in his armchair shaking his head. Then, 50 inches of HD and surround sound brought him, full of hope, to the edge again:
‘Chance! Rose's floated free kick finds Dier at the back post and he has the chance to get in a free header. It's a decent connection but Courtois is able to make the fairly comfortable save.’
Half-time. Rob, at first, sank back into his chair. Up until then he had been ignoring the grumbling sounds coming from the dining table. He strained his neck to see what his wife was up to. Amanda sat hunched over a newspaper looking dejected:
“What’re you getting worked up about, luv?”
“Rob” she started, clearly exasperated, “D’ya think I’m nice? Be honest.”
“Nice? What’re you talking about? ‘Nice’ is a bit of an understatement darling. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me… a diamond... I don’t know what I’d do without you and that’s a fact!”
“Go back to your football” she frowned at him over her glasses before jabbing her finger at her paper, “It’s this blooming article… basically, it says here that nice people are more successful. I must be doing something wrong, because I’m certainly not earning more money!”
“What you on about? There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re a star.”
“If I’m so nice why aren’t I more successful? Earning more money? What am I doing wrong? What am I missing?
“Give me that.” He reached over grabbed the paper and scanned the article: “Hmm . . . Research . . .leading expert at blah, blah, blah . . . found that nice people are more likely to succeed in life because they have high levels of emotional intelligence . . . you’ve lost me already . . . blah, blah, blah they say that they are happier, healthier, better at coping with stress – and make more money.’”
“The research showed that those who identified as nice were highly agreeable – that’s you - had high empathy – don’t know what that is - and compassion – definitely you - high self-ratings of altruism – yes I agree: it’s all true.
“What a load of old cobblers! And by the way, being well-off has nothing to do with how nice you are – or aren’t!”
Too late, he knew he’d said the wrong thing from his wife’s glum look.
“I’m tired… I’m going to bed” she said. She tore out the article and left it on the table. This was a signal Roy couldn’t ignore:
“Great”, he thought to himself, “she’s not gonna let this go… I’ll have to think of something.”
He noticed Amanda’s tote bag lying open on the floor next to the table, exposing her monthlies. Roy tutted: he failed to understand why she would willingly waste money on all those magazines. He picked up the bag and placed it on the sofa. He decided to turn in while he was still feeling Chelsea’s pain at losing 2-0 to Tottenham.
***
The following morning, Roy found Amanda in the kitchen preparing breakfast.
“Mornin’ luv” she smiled weakly at him. “I’ve done us some bacon and eggs on toast.”
“Nice!” he said enthusiastically. “I’ll make some coffee.” Conversation was dominated by the clink of cutlery against plates, and the clunk of mugs on the table’s surface. Finally, Amanda placed her knife and fork together at five twenty-five on her plate and drew the article of the previous day to herself and started to re-read it. She gave a big sigh. Roy saw his chance:
“Look, luv,” he reached across and placed a reassuring hand on her elbow “Generally speaking are you happy with your life?”
“Well I was until I read this!” She retorted, flicking the page.
“Oh come on, luv,” he said. “I thought you knew better than to take notice of these random articles. You know as much as I do that success isn’t measured in how much money you earn.”
“Yes it . . .” She caught herself just in time. She looked up at her husband one eyebrow raised. He had always been happy in his job – the most highly skilled - not to mention - respected amongst his colleagues. Yet he had turned down a promotion years ago. It wasn’t worth the hassle, he’d said, not for any amount of money. But then his aim wasn’t to be a manager, or business owner; his aim was to be the best cog in that wheel. And he certainly was.
“ Look at all the things you’ve done over the years . . . before and after we met – by the way that’s what attracted me to you – your energy . . . you’re definitely a doer . . . you say and you do.”
She seemed to brighten up a bit. But he wasn’t finished. He got up and went over to the sideboard. He rummaged in one of the draws finally finding what he was looking for. Settling next to his wife again, he said:
“Tell you what, why don’t you make a list of all the things you’ve done over the years?” sliding a pen and some sheets towards her.
“How’s that gonna help?” she protested whilst at the same time picking up the pen and arranging the sheets. “I’m telling you, it’ll be a very short list!”
“Well let’s see shall we?” He sat back in his chair, arms folded, waiting for her to start writing.
She looked at her husband thoughtfully:
“How come you know so much Doctor?”
He tapped the side of his nose and winked at her.
“OK, you may go now.” she said waving him away with one hand.
“Of course luv . . . I’ll do some shopping . . . See you later then.”
***
Over the next couple of weeks Rob was pleased to see that his wife seemed a lot happier; Hmm, he thought looks like making a list was a good idea. He was chuffed at the part he played in it. At the same time, he couldn’t put his finger on it, but she seemed to be up to something. She was making changes around the house – nothing unusual about that – nothing major. He’d find her leafing through old photo albums; rummaging through her wardrobe then taking various items to the charity shop; she finally put up that painting she did, inspired by the Tuscan hills; in the kitchen, she shifted things around. Well, if it made her happy he wasn’t going to interfere.
One day she asked him to knock a couple of hooks in the wall in the kitchen – above the empty space left by the microwave. He obliged wondering what she was going to put there. He asked, but his query was met with a secretive smile. That night, he was woken by his wife getting up to go to the bathroom. In his drowsiness he was aware of her moving around but just turned over and went back to sleep. The next morning he went into the kitchen. Yawning, he reached up, opening a cupboard, and took out a mug. He set it down on the counter top below and did a double take. Suddenly wide-awake thanks to the riot of colour and action staring him in the face: a large noticeboard hanging on the wall between fridge and the relocated microwave. Setting his mug to one side, he leaned on his elbows to study the photos, the Michael Jackson ticket stub, postcards, ribbons, newspaper articles spanning decades. His wife appeared at his side:
“What d’ya think?” She asked resting her chin on his shoulder.
“It’s A-MA-ZING!” He replied kissing her on the forehead. Delighted by his surprise at her ‘mood board’, she talked animatedly about her achievements: volunteering locally, graduating from university, swimming with dolphins in Florida, climbing mountains in Zakopane, skiing in the French Alps, backpacking in New Zealand, teaching in a lycée, their wedding day.
“You were right”, she said, nodding at her board “I’d forgotten about a lot of the things I’d done. And I’m proud of them all. This board is a reminder that I’m an achiever, not a loser.”
“That’s my girl.” Rob wrapped his arms around her “I might do one.” he teased. “I’d better get ready for work.”
“Not so fast, sunshine.”
Rob looked at his wife quizzically.
“I think you have something of mine? I know you took it out of my bag.”
Laughing, Rob held out his wrists. He’d been rumbled.
“Two ticks.” He said and wandered over to his armchair. He plunged his arm down one side and drew out a magazine.
“There you go, luv . . . great read that.” He said handing her a copy of Psychologies.
“Thank you, - she said laughing, and. . . Thank you.”
©Danielle Chinnon 2017