It's happened. I knew that it would. Hell and damnation.
My husband suddenly, out of the blue, likes Sudoku.
You see, I like Sudoku. And as any half intelligent being will tell you, only ONE PERSON CAN LIKE SUDOKU PER HOUSEHOLD.
For the last few years, since the VERY FIRST SUDOKU in the Times, I have been doing it. I have spent hours and hours pouring over the Fiendish on the last page of a popular broadsheet, (now conveniently sudoku sized).
Give me a Fiendish, or now the Super Fiendish, and I am a happy girl. Nice hot fire, drink in hand and a good sharp pencil (not HB. More like 2B).
My parents have a good ploy. They are both Sudoku mad. They photocopy (!) the sudoku page each morning and then they both have a lovely time doing it at their own pace. They have sharpened pencils at the ready. I tell you, it's a way of life. Both are happy. Both are content. It works.
Now, one of the biggest crimes anyone can commit in this house is to
Do The Sudoku When They Didn't Buy The Paper In The First Place.
There is nothing worse than arriving in the sitting room, fire all warm and glowy, children all in bed, supper sizzling nicely, than to find said sudoku Done. Not good. What is just as bad is to find Husband sitting by fire with said sudoku, Filling It In.
This has now happened not once, not twice but three times. I am not a Happy Bunny.
I am going to have to hide the paper. I refuse to give in and buy an awful little book full of sudoku puzzles. They are just not the same. They are Not Good. The only suduku for me is the one on the back of my broadsheet.
So, darling husband, here's the thing... you do my sudoku and I will go into your greenhouse and EAT ALL YOUR TOMATOES.
There. That should do it.
Now, where is my pencil?