I am alone in the house when I open the fridge to see that the top shelf has collapsed on to the shelf below, sending comestibles everywhere. A bolt of anger shoots through me, then subsides.
The mess seems perfectly illustrative of our dysfunctional domestic operation. Someone opens a jar of olives, eats three, then puts the jar on the top shelf, where it sits for six years. Over time, it is joined by some capers, a tin of condensed milk inexpertly lidded with foil, and various bottled condiments. Older foodstuffs are not culled, but shoved to the back. Jar is stacked upon jar, and tin upon tub. Because it happens by degrees, everyone is blind to the impending crisis. Then, one day, the shelf breaks under the weight of it all, and it becomes my problem.
“What’s all this?” my wife asks, pointing to the array of damp jars and tins on the kitchen table.
“Eat or bin,” I say, staring into the tool cupboard. “You must decide.”
“How depressing,” she says. “What are you looking for?”
“Glue,” I say. “I can’t find any.”
“I’m surprised you can find anything in there.”
“What happened to my glue collection?”
“I haven’t touched your fucking glue collection,” she says.
“Don’t swear at me,” I say. “I’m the victim here.”
“Sorry,” she says. “I’ve got rage again.”
Two days later, I ring her from the supermarket. “They haven’t got the glue I need,” I say.
“Did you honestly just ring me to tell me that?” my wife asks.
“I just thought, if you were passing a DIY shop, you could pick some up.”
I hear a huff of fury at her end. “Yes, OK, maybe,” she replies.
“Thank you,” I say. “It’s the epoxy resin, the kind that comes in two tubes.”
“Epoxy resin,” she says.
“Setting time isn’t important,” I say. “As long as…”
“Ring off, caller.”
The next afternoon, my wife finds me lying on the sofa. “You need to cut that wisteria,” she says. “It’s growing through a crack in the glass into the kitchen.”
“I’m busy,” I say.
“You’re watching Pointless,” she says.
I hold up my hands to show that I’m also pressing two halves of a refrigerator shelf bracket together while the glue sets. She turns, emits a low growl, and leaves.
On Saturday, my wife is sitting at the kitchen table, chatting to the oldest one and his girlfriend while I add medicine to the old dog’s food. From the corner of my eye, I can see the wisteria taking a turn around the radiator.
“I told the doctor about my rage,” my wife says. “He seemed to think it was normal in the circumstances.”
“Rage is normal,” I say. “I have rage.”
“You’ve got an enlarged prostate,” my wife says. “The doctor says every man your age has an enlarged prostate.”
“It was the vet who told you that,” I say. After setting down two dog bowls, I find I have half a tin of food left over.
“So it was,” my wife says. “Anyway, he didn’t give me any rage pills.”
“The vet?” the oldest one’s girlfriend asks.
“The vet is a woman,” my wife says.
“The trick with rage,” I say, “is to tuck it all safely away somewhere. Push it right to the back.”
“How long does that work?” the oldest says.
“Indefinitely, so far,” I say.
I open the fridge and see the newly repaired top shelf sitting snugly on its rails, a little teardrop of epoxy resin hanging from one corner. I set the half tin of dog food on it, next to another half tin of dog food, and shut the door.
