Civilisation ends with a bacon sandwich

WE have had a row.

I wouldn’t mention it except that this isn’t an ordinary Domestic.

This is the sort of row that terminates with the police digging up the yard. That’s why I’m telling you – so they’ll know where to find me.

I’m also telling you because I’m sure there are lessons to be learned here, even if I’m not sure what they are.

This row has gone on for several days. It began like a volcano (red hot lava and loud, poisonous eruptions), continued like a volcano (cold ash blanketing everything in a suffocating silence), and may, like a volcano, result in the end of civilisation as I know it.

And what caused this monumental conflict? What could be so immense, so cataclysmic, that it could shatter the foundations of 25 years of happy married life?

Would you believe, a bacon sandwich? (Wholemeal bread, no butter, any mustard but English).

I am partial to a bacon sandwich. At work. For lunch. Very occasionally.

They can’t hang you for that, can they?

Yes, yes, I know I have said in this column that I’m a vegetarian, but in reality I’m more of a lapsed vegetarian, like a lapsed Catholic, who is still a Catholic even if they eat meat on Fridays.

I get my bacon sandwiches from this café near the office, and very good they are, too.

The staff there happened to refer to it the other day when I was in. With my wife. I felt the air stiffening as we left.

“Have you been eating bacon sandwiches?”

“A bit.”

“You never told me.”

“Well, why would I? It’s only a bacon sandwich.”

“You’re keeping secrets from me.”

“What? What!”

“You’re eating all these bacon sandwiches and you never said anything.”

“Not all these bacon sandwiches. One or two. Now and then. Rarely!”

“So rarely they actually remember in the café how much you like them. You, you… cheat!”

“Look, it’s only a bacon sandwich. I don’t have to tell you when I have a cup of coffee, do I? I have lots of cups of coffee. Every day. Sometimes I go to the lavatory. Do I have to tell you about that, too!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. That’s different. I just thought you told me everything. I like to know what you’re doing when you’re at work. It makes me feel included.”

“Included in a bacon sandwich! A bacon sandwich once or twice! Are you serious? You are serious. You’re out of your mind! I can’t believe this is happening!”

“It’s not about a bacon sandwich, you obtuse and melodramatic cretin – it’s about having secrets!”

“And having secrets, you suspicious old… witch, is about mistresses and love children!”

“Oh, so there’s more…!”

There are a couple of spades and a pick in the shed. I haven’t laid any concrete recently, so if you find a new stretch, that’ll be a good place to start.

And if you should think about reburying me (after the trial) and you feel obliged to write something on the headstone, please don’t make it: He cheated on his wife – with a bacon sandwich.

People will think I’m a pervert.