I can't actually remember how it started. I'm not sure if it's because it was a long time ago, or whether it was just one of those marital rows that appear from nowhere and go back to the same place.
When we were younger, both the late Chairman and I were pretty volatile. Whether it was youth, stubborness, ego, or the delightful combination of all three, I'm not sure, but anyhow, that's how it was. Anyway, that afternoon, one of those trivial domestics blew into a full-scale shouting match. Ladies, you know the kind; you sit on the sofa trying to get a word in, while a red-faced troll lumbers up and down the sitting room enumerating your faults (and if you don't recognise the situation, you're probably not actually married). After he'd done this for what seemed like a very long time indeed, I managed to get a word in. Obviously the word (I can't remember exactly which one it was) was not the one he wanted to hear. So he was off again, only this time he'd really show me.
Really showing me generally consisted of him destroying something that he owned and was fond of. I never actually understood the philosophy behind this, but it was what a young Chairman did. I had recently bought him a large, hardbacked, artbook (appropriately, Surrealism). He triumphantly took it down from the shelf and brandished it. He then proceeded to attempt to rip it in two. It was an expensive and well-made book, and despite his strength, he was able to make very little impression upon it. But he was not to be beaten. Goodness he was going to punish me. He left the room and returned with his electric drill (every home should have one). He plugged it in, picked up the book, and perforated it by drilling very small holes, very close together, through the book, in a straight line. Then he dilligently tore along the dotted line and holding a half in each hand, waved them at me. I said and did nothing.
So he ate my rubber plant.