25 March 2006

War of the Roses

(or, the hitherto unrecorded Battle of Warstock Lane)

Owen and I have a curious relationship, frowned upon by many northerners. I was brought up in Yorkshire, he in Lancashire. I should, perhaps, mention that neither of us can claim full pedigree of our respective heritages since I was born in Wells and Owen was born in Cleethorpes, but nevertheless, I consider myself to be a Yorkshire lass and Owen thinks of himself as a Lancashire lad. The significance of this should not be underestimated - we’re talking Montagues and Capulets here.

This results in day-to-day conflicts in our household about all manner of very important issues. How certain words are pronounced is a particular bugbear. Thirsty? Would you say that “thussty” or “thurrsty”? And if you should want that thirst quenching, who makes the perfect cup of tea? Who’s hard as nails? Who’s a wuss? You get the picture.

There is one perennial difference between us that seems to be wholly characteristic of our geographic and cultural divisions: I can’t stand the rain while Owen enjoys it; he hates the wind and I love it. Think about it. I spent time up on t’moors, getting blown about while daydreaming about Heathcliffe and wailing along to a Kate Bush soundtrack. Owen got rained on in Bolton. A lot.

Today during our stint down the allotment we got well and truly rained on - heavy rain, light rain, driving rain, that strange rain that isn’t really like rain at all but gets you surprisingly wet. You name it, it rained on us. I got crotchety and impatient. Owen was in his element.

House of Lancaster, 1: House of York, 0.
Grrrrr.

Filed under: Hard labour, Seasons - spring — Clare @ 6:31 pm