Caught in the act

IT was bound to happen, sooner or later.

My wife has walked in on our daughter and her boyfriend.

Doing… it.

Not a boyfriend at all, really. More of a partner. I suppose that makes it more respectable. Unless, of course, you’re the one who has just opened the door and come face to face with a hairy backside. Then respectability is not the issue. Shock and embarrassment are much higher up the league table of emotional reaction than anything to do with respectability.

To be fair, she couldn’t actually identify either of them. There was always the possibility two complete strangers had invaded our granny flat, where this was going on.

I mean, she was in no position to identify the backside as belonging to anyone she knew (at least, I hope not) and of the four feet she could see, only two were close enough together to be identifiable as a pair.

And to be fair to my wife, the shock was nothing to do with disapproval, and the embarrassment was not because she saw what she saw – but because they saw that she saw what she saw!

Now no one knows where to look. Even though everyone is fully dressed again.

What a piece of work is the homo sapien! We all know it goes on; we all know it’s been going on for millions of years but we still react like someone only just came up with the idea and it’s too disgusting to talk about. Like line dancing.

Or maybe it’s not the whole human race but only our bit of it. I understand that in some cultures fornication is celebrated. In Japan it used to be common practice to give tea towels to newlyweds, upon which were depicted a wide range of sexual positions. Perhaps so they could check they’d been doing it right in their pre-marital phase.

When I lived with my parents I used to commandeer the front room most evenings, with my girlfriend. So we could listen to music, of course. Which is why we lived in permanent fear of a sibling or a parent bursting in. It didn’t stop us, though.

In fact it’s a racing certainty that my parents knew precisely what we were up to and that was exactly the reason why they didn’t dare burst in on us!

I reminded my wife of this. I pointed out that although we call it a granny flat, it’s actually a daughter flat, and she lives in it. With her partner. Assuming they are not merely good friends, and bearing in mind it’s a one-bedroom flat, there was always a possibility they’d be doing… it.

“But it was Saturday lunchtime! In the lounge room! On the carpet!” she said.

Well, good then. Their relationship is obviously thriving. The time to worry is probably when they’re not doing it on a Saturday lunchtime, in the lounge room, on the carpet.

And the sad part is – it will happen! Or to put it another way… it won’t happen.

There’s a certain sadness in the thought, like remembering the good times you used to have when you were a kid… a kind of homesickness for the past.

I pointed this out to my wife.

“But we don’t have to,” she said. “We’re married.”

“We don’t have to, but maybe we should,” I said, moving closer.

“But someone might burst in.”

“Serve them right.”

“Where’s the tea towel…”