It was not easy – at the time – which, considering the powerful grip she has got on such occasions is not really that much of a surprise. However, she did - in the end – propose to let go unless I – in turn – promised to see my way clear to tidying out the shed.
Once that was resolved to her satisfaction, she helped me climb back up the cliff to the relative safety of the footpath. I did think of asking why she had chosen a walk along a cliff-edge footpath this late in the evening, and during a howling gale, but then I looked at her and thought better of it. For all I know, she could have me insured and just saved me from falling to my certain death in the pounding waves below because she has always felt that wearing black doesn’t ‘suit her’. An attitude I have tried – so far without success – to change every time she wears the frogman’s wet suit on our ‘special’ Tuesday evenings when the kids are out setting fire to the neighbours.
Still, as we made our way back to the relative shelter of our cliff-top caravan she did assure me that when I had questioned why she was apparently sawing through my safety rope a few minutes earlier, as I dangled over the void, she was merely ‘tidying up a few frayed threads’ and not - despite the evil glint I caught in her eye when the moon made one of its fitful appearances from behind the heavy clouds – planning my demise.
‘After all,’ she wisely pointed out later.’ Without you there, how else would I warm up my ice cold feet in bed at night?’
So, all-in-all, in the end I had to concede she did indeed have a point, after all.
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