Hovering

"You look tired," I said.

"I am," she replied. "I was up late watching pointless TV."

"Why didn't you just go to sleep?" I asked.

"I couldn't," she said. "It's Mark. He was hovering."

"Ah," I said. "Hovering."

The hover: that all too familiar, yet little spoken of marital dance. I can well imagine the situation. Samantha lying in bed watching episode after episode of Friends or the like. Mark lying beside her. Unasleep. No word is spoken between them but she knows. She can feel it. As soon as she closes up her computer, he'll make his move. Not interested in giving him what he wants, but equally uninterested in conflict, she decides to wait him out. Another episode. Maybe he'll give up and fall asleep.

"I don't understand it," Samantha said to me. "The whole hovering thing. It's stupid. Counter-productive. I was too tired to think of it last night and now I'm going to be even more tired tonight. What does he think he's achieving?"

I shrugged. Hovering is clearly a bad game plan. Hoverers have to be able to see that. But not Mark, apparently. From what Sam has told me, Mark could hover for England.

"First he'll try the 'I'm reading my book' approach," she explained. "He'll lie there next to me with his book open, pretending to read, but every few minutes he'll look over my shoulder to see how long my episode has left to go. That's the give away. If he could just read his book, then who knows what might happen. But he can't do that. He has to make himself annoying. So I'll start a new episode hoping to give him the hint. And he'll sigh…"

"Does he take the hint?" I asked.

"Oh no," she said. "Next he'll play on his phone for half an hour or so, watching me. Then he'll start the 'I'm getting a cup of tea, would you like one?' routine. By this time he'll be pretty tired and will need to keep himself awake somehow - you have to be awake to hover effectively. Of course I won't want tea at midnight, so then he'll power on with his much loved 'Hey, maybe we could watch this show together' strategy."

"And you're not into that?" I asked.

"The Gilmore Girls!?" she said. "He'd just scoff!"

"Right," I said. "So after that?"

"The episode will finish and it'll be really late - so late that even he'll have to admit it's reasonable that certain things are off the table at this point. And I'll say firmly, 'I'm going to sleep now.' That'll do the trick, though there'll inevitably be some deep sighs."

"Wow," I said. "No wonder you're exhausted. That's quite a dance."'

"It is," she replied. "And we are both expert at it."

"But why do you do it?" I asked.

"Because he wants some," she said. "And makes himself obnoxious trying to get it."

"Yes," I said, "But what's the solution? There's got to be a better way."

"I could give him what he wants," she said.

"That's not a solution," I said. "You guys need to talk. Communicate."

"And say what?" she asked. " 'Honey, when you hover like a dog waiting for its dinner it is highly unattractive. Please don't do it, because if you do, the only feed you are going to get is a pity feed and you don't want that.' "

"That's a start," I said. "Hey! I'll be Mark and we can do the whole conversation!"

I put on a deep and dramatic voice. Very much unlike how the real Mark would speak.

"I am a starving man," I said. "If a pity feed is all I can get, then I'll have to take it."

She laughed.

"Grow up!" she said. "Nobody ever died of this!"

"You don't know that," I whined. "I never know when food is going to be on offer. It might be tonight! What if it is tonight and I'm not there waiting? What if I fall asleep? What then? I might never ever eat again…"

"Oh dear," she said. "If you keep up the desperate begging I will never feed you again."

"If only I could have some certainty," I continued. "If only I knew that my bowl was going to be filled at precisely 9pm each Tuesday, Friday and alternate Sundays. Then I could be sure. Then I wouldn't need to hover (except from 8.55pm each Tuesday, Friday and alternate Sunday.) Sure I would be hungry in between feeds, but I could manage it, imagining the bliss that will be mine five times a fortnight!"

We both laughed some more.

"I could try it," she said. "Routine feeds, Tuesday night and Friday night."

"And that has to be all that's on offer," I said. "You have to make it clear: nothing else, so don't bother begging."

Sam looked thoughtful.

"But what if I want some another night?" she asked. "What then? What if it's Monday and I think, 'Yes. Why not?'"

"You'll just have to suck it up," I said. "Manage yourself. What's good for the gander is good for the goose. The moment he gets it into his head that Monday is a possibility, then the whole thing comes crashing down and you'll have the Monday night hover to deal with 'till kingdom come."

"Hmm," she said. "It's a trade off."

"It is," I said. "But like with anything else, an unpredictable supply leads to panic and fear and desperation and watching pointless TV until 1am. Is that what you want?"

"No," she said resolutely. "I'm going to put an end to this hovering. Tuesday and Friday only. No exceptions."

"Good on you," I said.

But I went home feeling a little glum. I put an end to all hovering years ago. But Tuesday feels like a long time away.