MUNDANE MUSINGS

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 32, 30 April 1927, Page 4

MUNDANE MUSINGS

HOMO SAPIENS . . . WOMAN “SAPIENSER” (Written for THE SUN.) Hullo, folks! What shall we talk about this afternoon? Nothin’ very exciting' has happened in my little life during the last day or so ... no love affairs to gossip over . . . no new frocks . . . no nothin’, . . . so, there being nothing worth talking of, that leaves husband as the only available topic, doesn’t it? Husbands! ’ What a lot of rubbish one does read and write and talk and think about the species husband, from the time one is quite a small person, doesn’t one? One starts by thinking of the husband-to-be as someone rather wonderful, and as like Daddy as possible ... big and strong and smily. Of course our mental pictures of the splendid creature alter as we grow older or as the fashions in husbands, . . . potential or actual . . . change. Still, the ones we eventually select usually bear some likeness somewhere, to our first intimate impressions of a really “growed-up” man. Heigho! llow to catch a husband .. . how to hold him . . . how to get rid of him, p’raps ... is it any wonder that man is a conceited animal, when one thinks of all the frenzied thoughts that women have wasted on him form their cradle days onwards. Now that women have so many avenues in life open to them they are perhaps thinking less of marriage as the be-all and end-all of their careers . . . but nevertheless there are plenty of ’em about who still think that woman’s highest and sweetest ambition is to find a husband ... to be a “Womanly” woman ... to rear innumerable children . . . and to run a house like a perfect piece of machinery . . . ’stead of like the happy go lucky Liberty Hall, that your house and my house is, and will ever be.

And incidentally . . . what strange things some women select for their prospective partners! Strong silent men appear to be rather demode . . . for I’ve just met an enchanting widowed, child who swears that her next husband must be “a poor dear thing.” He needn’t be strong, or rich or handsome or successful . . . but he must be something she can pet and console, and the variety of “man” who will run to throw himself upon her womanly bosom and there sob out the woes that have beset him all day! Personally I’d much rather marry a hefty bushman, with muscles like quart milk bottles, who’d thump me round the room occasionally .... bully me as much as he liked (or could,) and strangle me with my own clothes when I annoyed him ... at least life wouldn’t be dull! “But! “a poor dear thing” . .! Imagine it! If he didn’t dress the kids in time for school I’d be able to pick up the rolling pin and make him eat the dust . . . and I'd get away with it, and probably have my “lord and master” come wheedling around for more! Not for this little child shall such a husband ever come true!

“It’s just occurred to me, in looking over the list of next, next-next., and next-next-next-husbands that I’ve planned for myself, that it would be frightfully thrilling if one could be a “husband” oneself occasionally. Think of the bliss of being roused every morning by a gentle voice tapping on your door and proffering you a cup of tea ... of hav-

ing hot water appear in the bath without the least exertion on your own part ... of finding the towels ready for you. . . . and after one had got through the hard job of work of bathing and dressing oneself to wander downstairs and find a satisfactory breakfast ready with your shoes (cleaned, of course), by the fender and the paper by your plate! After you’d got outside a perfectly nice meal wouldn’t it be wonderful just to stagger off to the office and leave the dishes and the ordering of the other meals and things . . . and arrive home again after an arduous (?) day’s toil in the city to fmd another meal ready, and an armchair and another paper waiting. Then at the week-ends, instead of working harder than ever shopping and ordering and helping Jane . . . which is what most of us do . . . I’d come in and have lunch, change and go off to golf, come home to tea (p’raps) and stagger out again to bridge at the club. Or p'raps I’d have a friend in, and we’d sit and smoke and talk till bed-time. On Sunday I’d get up about elevenish, after a leisurely breakfast in bed, stagger downstairs, and after a smoke and a look through the papers ... in which of course there wouldn’t be anything “worth reading,” . . . but which fact couldn’t be gleaned under an hour and a half’s peprusal. I’d go out in the garden and dig worms and feel all good inside and hard-work-ing and other nice things. During Sunday afternoon I’d have a nice, long sleep, while “somebody” kept the kids quiet. Sunday evening would be like Saturday evening, only more so . . . more bridge or more smoke or more just “man-talk.” What a time I’d have! And of course, quite often, I’d ring up at ten to six to tell my dear little wife that “I say, old thing, I’m frightfully sorry, but I’ll be dining at the club to-night. Got a big deal coming off, and I must eat with the confounded fellow.” Oh, yes, I’d have a lot of those “big deals.” And naturally, when my wife looked expectantly for a share of the “Big Deal” proceeds . . . I’d frown and look all bothered and say . . . “Hr, sorry, darlin’, but I’m afraid we can’t manage that new coat this month ...” and then I’d mumble something about “increased wages . . . overhead heavy” . . . and so Oh to be a husband! —H.M.