Read William Walkers First Year of Marriage for Free Online

I am cornered with nothing but the hole punch. Like a fluffy blur, Fluffy is there, flying through the air like Lassie. Except Lassie wouldn’t have been razored clean in two. The last thing I see is a look of total astonishment on Fluffy’s fluffy little face. Then I wake up clutching one end of a pillow.
Thursday 9 June
    Three estate agents come round to do flat valuation. Needed a shower afterwards. However much I scrubbed, I still felt dirty.
    ‘Mr Walker. Hi, Arthur Arthurs from Arthurs’ Arseholes.’
    ‘I’m sorry?’
    ‘Arthur Arthurs from Arthurs & Sons. For the valuation. Pleasure. May I? Lovely, lovely hallway. Mmm, yes, oh, lovely carpets. Neutral. Perfect.’
    ‘This is the only bedroom.’
    ‘Oh gorgeous, the space, the light, the scope, the movement.’ He’s a stamp collector who’s discovered a penny black, an art collector who’s tripped over a Rembrandt in the attic, the first archaeologist at Sutton bloody Hoo.
    ‘Look at this kitchen, will you? Just look at it. Look at this well-appointed, well-equipped, well-planned little minx of a kitchen.’
    It’s a tiny kitchen in a tiny flat on the wrong side of Finsbury Park that he may have to sell at the height of a property-market crash but he’s excited.
    ‘Oh yes, the walls. Oh yes, the marble surfaces. Oh yes, the hood, the hood, the hood. Mmmm, lovely. The toilet! Aarrrrhhhh. Ooooooh. Bidet. Smooth. Simple. Soft. You cheeky bidet. You halogen lighting. You naughty, naughty power shower.’
    He was the least repellent of the three. And suggested the highest selling price.
Saturday 11 June
    This was always going to be a difficult day: both sets of parents coming up for an afternoon stroll, then wedding photos, then dinner. Seemed so simple—we have nice, non-problematic, hang-up-free parents. No messy divorces, no excessive corporal punishment, no strange method-parenting guaranteed to instil some deeply hidden psychological bomb set to go off any time in early adulthood. But then you have to consider the conflicting requirements: it’s like doing the catering at an allergy-sufferers’ convention.
    My mum: South African interior designer, impatient; loves short walks, dogs, home improvements; hates cats, overcooked vegetables, old art-house movies from Japan.
    Her mum: Polish doctor, impatient; likes cats, home improvements, cleanliness; hates dogs, undercooked vegetables and walking anywhere that isn’t strictly necessary. ‘I escaped through the Iron Curtain, my darlinks, with only forty zloty, some silver spoons and my university certificate hidden in my tights. I walked through Europe to be here. I have done enough walking.’
    My dad: English; traditional; slowing down a bit. Likes not saying very much, except when he tells a story, which can take hours. Leaves rest of liking and hating of cats, dogs, vegetables and home improvements to Mum.
    Her dad: ditto, but more so; doesn’t suffer fools, gladly or otherwise. In fact doesn’t really suffer anyone or anything. Especially short walks. Short walks are stuff and nonsense. In his day, he walked 100 miles just to buy the milk.
    Even before the lunch began, I knew it would be difficult. Isabel in big mood because her razor is blunt and her legs, consequently,look like streaky bacon. I obviously know nothing, which only makes her more grumpy. Then, the family arrives.
The walk
    ‘I will stay here. I don’t want to go for a walk,’ says her mum.
    ‘A short walk never killed anyone. It is a short walk, isn’t it?’ says mine.
    ‘Come on, let’s get on with it,’ say the dads in unison.
    We all leave the flat, and set a course for Hampstead Heath.
    ‘Are these plantains?’ Three hundred yards in, my dad, like a moth to an ultraviolet insect zapper, has been drawn to a Caribbean vegetable store on the Holloway Road.
    ‘I think so, Dad. Leave them.’
    ‘Excuse me, young man, how long does one cook plantains?’
    We wait outside a wig shop for ten minutes while Dad gets the