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The Inanimate Love Triangle

He’s not the jealous type. My old man.

But last week I suspected that something was meddling in my marriage.

A third party.

Regrettably not another man and thankfully not the mother-in-law, this “third party” [AKA my guilty pleasure] had surreptitiously stolen its way into the holy matrimony and eloped with my heart and soul, body and mind.  Poaching every precious moment, monopolising every meticulous thought.

And my other half didn’t like it.

Not one little bit.

Tucked up between the sheets, pawing at me proprietorially, with his tail between his legs [every pun intended] and big puppy-dog eyes, it didn’t take a genius to work out that this was most definitely not normal. For goodness’ sake, it was the first time he’d followed me to bed early in years. And probably the last. Since I’d become rather partial to taking my “guilty pleasure” to bed these days.

By default of which

I was also now bedding my very own green-eyed monster.

And who could blame him for being cheesed off? After all, being tied in wedlock to an inattentive [bordering on negligent], pre-occupied, self-absorbed Mrs, who had herself a new and annoyingly anti-social agenda, was most certainly not part of the marital master plan. Forget delicious Dine-In-For-£10 dinners, 2-4-1 cinematic date nights followed by sleepy pillow talk. Lately he was lucky to get egg and chips. For One. With late-night TV for company.

Last week I suspected that something was meddling in my marriage.

And it’s down to my guilty pleasure.

But the “guilt” part is becoming too much to bear. Torn between him and it. It and him.

He’s not the jealous type. My old man.

But my goodness, will he regret the day he bought me this g’ddam COMPUTER!

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