The ITV drama, The Widower stars with a wedding. As a recent bride myself, I exhaled dramatically at the romance, making soft swoony noises while recalling my own special day, blithely assuming the title referred to lead character Malcolm’s past rather than his future. (Reece Shearsmith can literally do anything, by the way. Give him his own channel please.) Maybe it’s just a lovely story about a man who lost his first wife and has found love again. How nice. Three hours of television about a man whose wife has died, marrying a new wife and having a lovely time.
I snuggled up to my husband on the sofa and looked up at him dreamily. He didn’t look down as he was watching the telly, but I’m sure if he had, he would have smiled or at least winked. He might have even kissed me on the head or fluffed up his chest to make it more comfy for me. No sooner had I breathed on my wedding ring and polished it on my nightie than the husband on the telly was behaving oddly. He was buying too many clocks.
That was giveaway number one, really. I’m fairly confident in saying that my husband has never bought a clock. Sure, we have framed posters of zombies, but he has never once come home with a clock, probably because they don’t make zombie clocks.
The clocks Malcolm the widower buys are antiques. We have no antiques. We call them old. We like new things. I’d worry that an antique clock wouldn’t work or would need batteries you can’t get any more and so it would end up less of a clock and more of a picture that makes you think you’re late all the time.
Sign number two was when Malcolm built a bonfire and didn’t check for hedgehogs. What kind of monster is this? My husband is very pro-hedgehog. Since I met him he has never constructed a bonfire, but he did once cook our tea on a disposable barbecue on the step of a LOG CABIN! And even though he burnt nothing more than substandard meat, our further requests for weekends away at the same place were duly ignored.
Sign number three was that Malcolm made a lot of tea for his new wife, Claire. This is where I sat up. I have a habit when watching films and television to try to second guess the criminal’s intentions. But I also place myself as the victim and calculate whether I’m smarter than the actual victim. I once worked out that I would have bettered death in all the Final Destination films. I never leave knives out, get out of the bath backwards and won’t stand still on a level crossing. Easy.
I eyed my husband suspiciously as I realised HE makes ME a lot of tea. He doesn’t drug mine. Though I have no proof of that and I do love a nap.
The clocks, the hedgehog, the tea, the naps: all would have made me raise an eyebrow but no more. But then he told her she couldn’t go to the doctor’s. That’s when the alarm bells started ringing. I’d have been at my sister’s with an overnight bag before he could start wagging his finger. Sadly, Claire’s alarm didn’t go off. That’ll be those antique clocks not working. Told you.
I’m glad I’m too old to go clubbing
I accidentally fell across The Nightclub Toilet on Channel 4. Thank goodness for old age and growing out of such horror.