What I did for love, or, A new low for pressups

Mrs TryAthlete has a few out-of-town singing gigs in other cities. Husband hates these, because a) they are a long way away, and traffic is lousy, b) she tends to get ill (if not by the first one, then by the end of the week), c) the gigs are evening ones and they get home late, d) he thinks the money's not worth it, and e) he has to go along to make sure she gets back alright, because he doesn't want her to have to make her way back herself in that sort of condition. She agrees to do them anyway. Having voiced his objections before, husband vows to keep his mouth shut and say no more, even though he's hating it more or less all the way. In between rehearsals and the actual concert, there is nothing for TryAthlete to do except read Desert Storm, so he makes frequent trips to the toilet - not to contemplate on, or worship at, the porcelain shrine, but to kowtow to it in sets of 20. After a 15-hour day, 9 of which spent travelling about 250 miles, the station wagon rolls in at 1:30am, whereupon husband gets Mrs TryAthlete, cold, tired and with a headache, in the house safe and sound. Job done.

Nearly seven hours later, the TryWagon embarks on a relatively sedate journey of 3 miles in about 25 minutes. All Try can think of is, heck, we got another one Thursday, and how to convince Mrs not to agree to do these [substitute your own words here] gigs again next year.

And hey, the TryCastle drawbridge may at times have squeaked at the chains, but it never lowered.