Third time lucky! (standard:humor, 1265 words)
Author: Jilly	Added: Aug 08 2005	Views/Reads: 3172/2140	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
I'm thinking of getting married again? For the third time? Must be losing my marbles! How come I have two failed marriages behind me...well you see, it's like this....

Third time lucky! 

What I am I thinking?  Must be losing my marbles.  ‘Twice bitten, twice
shy' was the term that I said repeatedly to all the lads, not so very 
long ago.  I have been a bit sceptical in the last few years, I 
suppose.  Well, I think I have every reason to be cynical.  Seeing your 
whole world tumbling down in front of your very eyes, like watching an 
old block of flats being demolished; isn't the most pleasant of sights 
to see. This is what happened to marriage number two.  But then, maybe 
I had it coming. 

Maybe I was a bit of a lad; a man's man.  Liked the ole booze I did. 
Liked nothing better than a laugh and a joke with my mates, down at my 
local.  Even eyeing up all the totty was part of a ‘good night out'.  
All harmless fun, you see.  I mean, flirting is part of the norm, with 
my mates and me.   Every hot blooded male does it. 

It was Claire; she just couldn't handle the fact that I was a good
looking guy.  All the birds loved me.  Tracy, behind the bar, fancied 
the pants off me she did.  She made a play for me most nights.  Not 
that I was in the pub every night, you know.  Just on Mondays, coz that 
was the Pub Quiz night.  And Thursdays, coz that was the darts night.  
Then always straight after work on a Friday.  I mean, I had been 
working hard all week; I deserved a session after a week spent in that 
place.  And Saturday, well that was regular.  A religion.  Like going 
to church every Sunday (though the last time I went to church was when 
I tied the knot with Claire, six years ago). 

All the lads met up in the pub on a Saturday.   First, at dinner time
for a sesh, and to watch the footy; then after tea, early like, for a 
few more.   You see, Claire didn't agree with that.  She winged all day 
and all night: “You never spend any time with me.  Don't you love me 
any more?”  On and on, she would go.  Boring.  It's not as if she 
didn't know what I was like.  I hadn't changed.  This is me.  Like it 
or lump it.  “If you don't like it, get out”, I used to tell her.  
Trouble is; she did.  Get out, I mean.  One Saturday night, as I rolled 
in, some time after eleven, clutching a six-pack and a saggy bunch of 
shrivelled pink roses (that I had grabbed on the way home from the 
late-night garage next to the pub) hoping to gain some Brownie points. 

I opened the front door, and surveyed the situation, waiting for ‘Nora
Batty' to confront me with a giant rolling pin.  Only, there was no-one 
there.  I looked in the lounge; nope not here.  Phew!  I tripped on the 
way into the kitchen.  Blast!  When I regained my jelly-like torso, I 
peered through to see if she was there, ready for a fight.  Nope.  
Ahhhhh....maybe she's gone to bed.  I put the tinnies and expiring 
flowers onto the work surface, and try to turn around to go back out of 
the kitchen.  Only my legs kind of get wrapped around themselves.  All 
knotted like.  Shhhhh....  Be quiet Shaun.  Claire will hear you. 

Then I get this really amusing image in my head.  Well, it seemed funny
that night.  Maybe she's left me.  Gone to her mothers.  To that old 
battle axe!  Blimey, she makes Godzilla look flipping handsome.  
Interfering old goat.  Got a mouth like the Mersey tunnel, that woman. 

I climb the stairs like I'm climbing up Snowdon, only its taking longer.
 There's definitely more steps than there was this morning.  I gently 
rammed the bedroom door open, and look around the room.  Oh my God!    
All the wardrobe doors are open.  Drawers on the dresser hanging open, 
like a thirsty dog's tongue.  The beds covered in my stuff.  What a 
mess! Christ, we've been burgled!! 

Either that or she she's gone and done it.  Left me, that is. This is
where I decide not to let that six-pack downstairs go to waste.  Will 
worry about this little lot in the morning. And that was the end of 
Claire.  Mrs Jackson number two. 

Now, number one Mrs Jackson was a bit of let-down.   Denise. We were
only eighteen when we tied the knot.  Thought she was pregnant, you 
see.  So, ‘shotgun wedding here we come', we got married within two 
weeks.  Big mistake!  It turned out she wasn't pregnant after all.  A 
mistake with her dates, she said.  That marriage lasted precisely three 
months!  She was a nightmare.  She used to spend all flipping morning 
‘putting her face on'.  And when I tried to kiss her she'd say “Get 
off! Don't smudge my make-up Shaun”. 


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