.
She really doesn't believe that I am saving the world by playing Solitaire and drumming to music. I explained to her how I was beating back the dark forces of defeatism every time I won a game- which she calls Patience in her British manner, they have such silly ways with the English language.
“I began to realize the import of winning at Solitaire, Mary, when I noticed that just before I would win it would appear so bleak. The right card just wouldn't show up and there was the looming threat of the order I was trying to create being bogged down by the forces of chaos.” I said to her over a few pints of ale. That's Anglo for beer, silly Brits.
“Rubbish!” was all she said.
“Yes, dear, I was winning out over the rubbish of the cosmos!” I said, wiping my chin and looking at her hazel, mocking eyes. She has constantly insulted me from the week I fell in love with her. Apparently the Redcoats think that's endearing. I still hadn't forgiven her for calling me an idiot in front of my friends during the Superbowl last year.
I waved my hands in the air. “You see, we are in a constant battle with chaos, the waste of the world clouding our creative expressions. And when I win at Solitaire, when I persevere once again at the task of organizing that small universe and pay no attention to the nagging doubts clawing at the back of my brain, telling me to just give up, it's useless and will get me nowhere- when I overcome all obstacles strewn in my path, I add to the victory and success of the whole planet! Don't you see?”
“Pillock!” Was her brief reply. I looked at her, trying to remember the distinction between pillock and bullocks and bollocks, my mind swimming in more confusion. There were thoughts of idiots, big male steer and testicles rolling around in my head.
“And when I do synchronized percussion to my favorite songs I am also beating back the forces of chaos....” I said, downing the last of my ale.
“Synchronized percussion, bloody hell, you cheeky bugger!”
“What?” I protested.
“Your use of English is a bit overmuch, you pikey.” She said, and then tossed back the last of her ale. “You really mean drumming- synchronized percussion... really!”
“Well, it denotes more of what I wanna say. Drumming is- is so generic!”
“Rubbish! It's the everyday way of speaking. You've been reading too much Macbeth, my literary genius...not!” She said, her hazel eyes once again mocking me. “And don't use denote, pah- ur such a ham.”
I sighed and said, “So, you really don't believe I'm bringing one iota of good into the world?”
“Not by your Patience and banging your fingers on the table top, you silly bugger. You do it by being open and kind and by spouting your values in your silly, playful way.” She said, her soft green eyes staring directly into mine.
“Hmmm,” I said, “Mary of South London... I love you.”
