At first, she thought it was cute, being serenaded as they walked to the restaurant or art gallery.
“Girl with the big blue eyes, we’re going to see an exhibition about the French Renaissance painter Monet.”
I didn’t really bother her that he couldn’t rhyme for shit.
It did a little.
But he was handsome, made her laugh and could make a mean beef lasagne.
She realised that he had a problem straight after they had had sex for the first time.
“I’m glad we just got to have sex. It was the very, very, very, very best.” he strummed, moments after rolling off of her. She hid her head under the pillow in embarrassment as he tried to think of a word that rhymed with foreskin.
Nothing rhymed with foreskin.
It quickly became apparent that John was a little too connected to his little red ukulele. Rather than being the quirky, care-free muso she had first suspected on the station platform, it was clear, that after four dates, there were three people in this relationship.
Six week’s later and Jane was beginning to despise the ukulele. It was the third-wheel in what was promising to be quite a promising relationship; a red spot on their otherwise blemish-free affair of witty conversation, good-ish sex and knee-shakingly good beef lasagne.
“I’m always waiting. It’s incredibly frustrating,” she complained to her friend, slapping her hand over her dirty rhyming couplet mouth immediately after she had said it.
She eased the instrument from his sleeping embrace as soon as she got home. Softly opening the kitchen door, she padded into the garden, placing the ukulele into the metal bin the council had never quite got around to collecting in the early 90s.
As the fire crackled, she could swear she heard it play the first four bars of ‘when I’m cleaning windows’.
In the morning, John was beside himself. She held him, told him it was a robbery, and that they could buy him a new one.
After five peaceful years, on the night before their wedding, she kept her promise.