You know what they say – “It ain’t over ’till the fat lady sings”. I normally have to be in a receptive mood to appreciate opera, so it’s no surprise that I have a rather severe headache from – metaphorically speaking – having to put up with a corpulent soprano bellowing out the arias all weekend.
I recently extended the olive branch to my wife once again and asked her to at least consider the possibility of reconciliation. She returned the olive branch, but sadly, she had cut it into tiny pieces and burnt them. When we last spoke on Friday evening, she told me in no uncertain terms that she couldn’t wait to be rid of me and if I ever darken her door again, it would be further darkened with bloodstains. Mine.
So that’s it, then. The end. I’ve heard it said that insanity could be defined as doing the same thing over and over, but expecting a different result. That may be true, but I had to at least give it a try. On the other hand, I don’t pretend that I’m entirely sane, so no worries there. Still, having visions of Monserat Caballé singing Verdi in my skull is a tiny bit disturbing – even for me.