Being a tale most excruciating, in which Our Narrator finds himself (viz., Mr. Wodehouse and Ms. Kettricken) far from gruntled, confounded most vexatiously by the seemingly random wanderings of mind and spirit that are latterly characteristic, behavioral-wise, of his nearly almost formerly Betrothed-One.
Which is to say, in other words, that even at this late stage in the game, these final few moves in the Saga of Smiley's Person, these last few posts in the outline of the Great American Divorce Book (for Men), Dr. SP himself remains systematically unable to make either head or tail of Walkaway Wife's Logic, which, despite 16 weeks "on our own," despite teary-eyed children wondering "what's wrong" with their parents, despite her confessional moments of loneliness, sorrow, regret (that SP made her divorce him, mind you), and the like, remains single-mindedly focused on Herself.
For she, Mrs. SP Herself, has now declared herself to be aggravated, indignant, livid, maddened, umbrageous, and all-around sore that SP remains angry at the most recent exhibition of Mrs. SP's mastery of Teh Batsh*t Crazitude.
This, she has declared, is unfair and unjust and unsporting and ungentlemanly, as she hasn't brought fresh, new, direct from the farm to your table, Batsh*t Crazy in well-nigh a fortnight. For which, she says, SP has given her not a whit of credit.
Apparently one is not only supposed to terminate the marriage on Walkaway's schedule, one is supposed to act and react as if on a railway timetable as well.
And, most importantly, to forget, upon Walkaway's demand, that which is declared forgettable (because the forgetting-of-which suits Walkaway's purposes at the time), including such various and sundry non-rememberable-worthy bits as
* Teh Batsh*t Crazy in general
* Signore (il Primero)
* lying, deceiving, attacking, slapping, spitting, bottles (throwing-of), I hate you'ing, I should have divorced your worthless a** 10 years ago'ing, and/or
* any other accounts, anamneses, anecdotes, impressions, memories, recollections, remembrances, or reminiscences such that the abilities, competencies, and/or skills of WAW might be called into question, such as and especially the not-unrecent incident in which WAW requested that Dr. SP inspect a light fixture in her new residence, for which she was imminently to consult, at considerable drain to the pocketbook, Local Master Electrician, whose butt-cleavage-free trouserage and Bercedes-Menz electrician's van gives one a visual appreciation of his expertise (or his rate card, depending upon one's level of cynicism).
Smiley's Person was requested, in the spirit of Friendiness and Mutual Cooperation, to provide a diagnosis of The Problem for WAW, with which, thus armed, she might negotiate a better price with Local Master Electrician.
What you must know is that SP is not widely regarded by Ye Public for his expertise with Things Electrical; such gadgets, it is his understanding, generally function as per the formula on page 1,031 of volume 14 of the Kinsley manual, to wit:
However, in the Spirit, he brought his masterful diagnostic skills to bear on what was certain to be a complex (and expensive-to-repair) electrical problem. WAW had, after all, been suffering with it for 2 months -- clearly something was amiss Chez Walkaway.
Upon inspection of the recalcitrant electrical fixture, SP determined, through careful analysis and troubleshooting, that what was certain to be required was....
...a new light bulb.
Security Council Resolution in hand, WAW declares this incident to be done with, over, vorbei -- in short, never again to be recalled, along with any and all other incidents in which WAW might conceivably not appear at her best.
Anything less would be inequitable and might -- might, mind you -- lead her to conclude that SP is not WAWorthy. (This, one can be forgiven for suggesting, would rather appear to have been a conclusion she reached a nine-month ago, and yet....)
And what, you might ask, would be the payoff of WAWorthiness? Of finding WAWldo?
Ah, dear readers, that is the Sweetest Thing of All. That which is Dreamed-Of. That which is Hoped-For, Most Earnestly, by the MWD aficionado.
