22 passive-aggressive things to say to your partner this week

WITH so many rich possibilities for passive-aggression in a relationship you have to be discerning. Here are the top 22 row-starters for the current week:

‘Is the yoghurt out for a reason?’

It’s out because they failed to put it back in the fridge. It’s OK. You’re helping them improve as a human.

‘Are you still OK to give me a lift/vacuum upstairs/rehang the door?’

They have forgotten entirely about their assigned task. They need reminding.

‘Have you seen the scissors?’

What the f**k have you done with the scissors?

‘I don’t mind; you choose something.’

It shouldn’t be too hard for your partner to read your mind about what to watch on TV. Why else do you shag them?

‘What were you thinking about for dinner?’

For when the other person never puts in a minute’s effort or thought. Or even knows what’s in the bloody fridge.

‘Is there a problem with the washing machine?’

To be said while holding a basket of wet washing accusingly.

‘It had been kicking about for ages.’ 

A perfectly reasonable defence when you have chucked something of your partner’s out because it was annoying you.

‘Have you had chance to book your car in?’

To be said just as your partner settles on the sofa with a coffee, so they can’t enjoy it.

‘Alex’s boyfriend has started doing this fasting thing three days a week?’

To nudge your partner to become more like Alex’s boyfrend, who is hot. Or ‘Did you get anywhere with gym membership?’

‘I’m just used to it being a bit thicker / creamier.’

I’m used to my chicken korma tasting nicer and I want to make this known without giving you any grounds for an actual row.

‘What’s your vision for this plant?’

Get rid of the f**king plant. It’s dying anyway.

‘Does this cupboard have a system?’

To be said while staring, brow furrowed in confusion, into a kitchen cupboard as baffling to you as the paintings of Hironymous Bosch.

‘Someone’s moved the scissors.’

There are only two people living in your flat. But still you haven’t directly accused.

‘You might want to be in the other lane.’ 

Your partner, busy driving, will definitely welcome this statement while navigating six-lane traffic.

‘I’m not sure if we need petrol.’

The car is running on fumes. Your partner will need to fill it at their own expense.

‘We don’t usually go this way.’ 

You’re going the wrong way.

‘Is the heating on?’ 

Said while shivering in a giant fleece, this means ‘Put the f**king heating on, do I look like a Dickensian orphan, you tight twat?’

‘Is that cheese in the fridge?’

The olfactory footprint of that cheese has reached the bedroom. Get rid of it. It stinks.

‘Are those boots meant to be there?’

Move the bloody boots.

‘It’s fine, they won’t mind us being five minutes late.’

It is not fine, and I mind.

‘Don’t worry about taking out the bins, I did it before you got up.’

It’s 7am, you’ve just woken up, and you’re already a selfish arsehole.

‘Might you be able to …?’

Do it. Now. Or the relationship is over.

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Why wild swimming, no I mean camping, has always been my passion

I’VE always loved wild swimming, sorry I meant camping. The exhilarating freedom of plunging into the sea, by which I mean a tent on Dartmoor, heals the soul. 

The court ruling banning this age-old English activity which I have been doing for simply ages rent my wild camping heart in two, and left me no option but to write about how special and marvellous it is, and that I do it.

When did I begin? Ah, I remember standing overlooking the lake, wondering ‘will I actually jump in?’ And no, not that, in fact wondering that as I put up my tent by the lake with ‘jump in’ being a figure of speech.

I loved it. The bracing cold, the invigorating feeling on the skin, the actually the canvas and the magical feeling of waking up to see a herd of deer outside the tent or similar. Putting on my DryRobe, which campers wear no doubt, to do yoga at sunrise.

There’s nothing like it, I imagine. Comparing it to normal camping is like comparing the thrilling experience of diving into a mountain lake with swimming at a municipal pool. That’s just the first comparison that comes to mind.

So as an evangelistic wild camper everywhere from Windermere to Bournemouth to Penzance, I will be protesting this ban. Yes, perhaps I should have protested before the court case and its publicity, but I’d forgotten how much I love it until then. I’d confused it with the other thing.

I will not be silent on the subject. In every newspaper, on your radio, on your television and your social media, I shall be proclaiming my passion for wild swimming, shit I’ve done it again, camping.

You’ve never done it? No, I imagine you haven’t. Not really the type, are you?