You don’t know the first thing about her. I bet she’s never farted in front of you, has she? No I thought not, I mean that’s not romantic is it. You just want the perfume clouds of love, the magical-ness of it all, the forced crap. Well I got news for you sonny-jim, that’s not love. Love’s hard work, hard craft. Love can be murder. Love is watching what she wants to watch on the T.V., taking her the paper and a cup of tea on a Sunday morning in bed and inquiring to asking what she might be feeling. “You’re right dear” while fluffing up her pillows, and she might get irritated by that, but you gotta take it on the chin with broad shoulders, because…she’s the Queen, and you’re the bee, the dad. And so what if you cook the dinner and you get no thanks for it. Don’t do it if you expect thanks, that’s not why you do it. And yes you forgot about that dripping tap or whatever for the past five years and then one day for whatever reason, god knows why, you get off your fat ass and you find yourself under the sink with a wrench in your hand and your smiling like fck….because you know it’s going to please her. If she don’t notice it, she don’t notice it, it doesn’t matter. It’s the maintenance of a marriage, the nuts and bolts, the nitty-gritty, the reality that’s life, that’s love. It ain’t easy, nobody ever said it was going to be easy, it’s fcking hard work. But y’know, love can be….Lovely.
Ray Winstone (44 Inch Chest)