I came home from the restaurant tonight and one of the dogs had peed in the kitchen, which they never do. My wife, Eva, got the mop to clean it up and moaned enough to make the guilty dog feel ashamed, and creep out of the door to hide its poor self away in shame. In the fun way we have of being mean to each other, I told her I thought she was unfair seeing as it never normally happens- she agreed, we drank wine and that was that. The dog crept back in.
I went to sit in the living room and catch up on Sky News, and after five minutes, I felt my bum was wet. I checked, and there were two pee patches on the sofa. As all dog owners will know, something must have happened. Even so, I had to keep it from my wife, and so I have been trying to get her to go to bed for ages so that I can clean it up without her knowing. She wouldn't really care, she is lovely, but the reason for this story is that when I realised one of the dogs, and we know which one because she is still acting ashamed, had a probable urine infection, which will cost who knows what, I got depressed about the money. It is one thing after another. Can we not have a month go by without a bloody emergency?
And then the epiphany: Would you rather have lots of things going on in your life, or little or nothing happening? If you have one house, you mend one broken fence. If you have fifty, there's more to do. Although it can be a drain, I would most definitely prefer to let a lot of things into my heart and take the pain that comes with it, than allow nothing in and be numb.