Guess what's coming for dinner

I have never been able to test the Bard’s theory that sleep knits up the ravelled sleeve of care, for the simple reason that I have never been able to sleep peacefully.

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Maybe Anne Hathaway took sleeping pills and made sure Ole Bill got his night's rest, beguiling him into making barmy claims about sleeves and sleep and ravelling. Sadly, Iam always denied my beauty sleep by the endless tossing and turning of the missus, who obviously is a failure at knitting or crocheting or whatever one does to the ravelled sleeve.

Let me explain. Last Friday, just as I was just drifting off after celebrating the advent of the weekend with three large ones, I was disturbed by the restlessness of my dear wife.

“What's the matter, dear?” I asked solicitously. All those who might be ignorant of the perils of married life should note that every husband who wants peace at home must invariably address the better half as ‘dear. Yes, it is mandatory—even if her restless turning has dragged you away from the edge of the most delicious sleep.

“Nothing,” she said.

In the normal course, “Nothing” is an ominous answer, but my highly developed sixth sense told me that, at least on this occasion, there would be no sinister consequences for me.

So, I asked again. Politely. After some time, she said, “I don’t know what to cook for lunch tomorrow. For more than an hour, I have been considering getting up and going to the kitchen to soak chana—the chickpeas that you like so much”

“So go and soak them, dear,’ I said.