How many married couples do you know who met over accounting books in a Starbucks?

My mother repressed a shudder of apprehension, for, being more rapid in perception than my father, she grew alarmed on his account over things which only began to vex him a moment later. Whatever might cause him annoyance was first noticed by her, just as bad news of France is always known abroad sooner than among ourselves.

A single person is a manageable entity, whom you can either make friends with or leave alone. But half of a married couple is not exactly a whole human being: if the marriage is successful it is something a little more than that; if unsuccessful, a little less. In either case, a fresh complication is added to the already intricate business of friendship: as Clem had once remarked, you might as well try to dance a tarantella with a Siamese twin.

What is it about ye, Sassenach, I wonder?” he said conversationally, eyes still fixed on Myers.

“What is what about me?”

He turned then, and gave me a narrow eye. “What it is that makes every man ye meet want to take off his breeks within five minutes of meetin’ ye.”

“Well, if you don’t know, my dear,” I said, “no one does.

I thought he said you weren’t drunk if you could find your arse with both hands.”

He eyed me appraisingly. “I hate to tell ye, Sassenach, but it’s not your arse ye’ve got hold of—it’s mine.”

“That’s all right,” I assured him. “We’re married. Share and share alike. One flesh; the priest said so.

That married couples can live together day after day is a miracle that the Vatican has overlooked.