Just started reading a book called “Four letters of love” by Niall Williams, and this paragraph made me smile -
Wives create their husbands. They begin with that rough raw material, that blundering, well-meaning and handsome youthfulness they have fallen in love with, and then commence the forty years of unstinting labour it takes to make the man with whom they can live
And - By the time my father had been three times promoted, I imagine my mother believed her work with him was over. He no longer squeezed toothpaste from the middle, never came from the garden on to the cream-coloured carpet she had bought for the hall without removing his shoes, never attempted to wear the same socks or underpants two days running, bathe less than four times a week, nor leave the toilet seat up after urinating.
I've got another 'keen'... Ouch!