How to cope with a lady's whims: Accept that their decisions won't always make sense - and if mishaps occur, it's always your fault.
Female mystery solved
Albert Einstein reputedly admitted to never being able to fathom his own wife's inner thoughts. Now another giant-brained physicist, Stephen Hawking, in an interview marking his 70th birthday, has ceded an equal amount of bewilderment to the workings of the female mind.
So, if those with Nobel Prize-winning intellects cannot comprehend the mysteries of the fairer gender, what chance do the rest of us doltish underachievers stand?
Personally, I can't see what all the fuss is about. Although I'm far from an expert on how women think, I've realised through my dealings with my wife that there are ways to cope with ladies' particular whims.
First of all, you must accept that sometimes, their decisions won't always make logical sense. And then, if any mishaps occur because of this, just admit that it's totally your fault.
A case in point was this New Year's Eve. The Mrs and I had managed to acquire some tickets to Coldplay's gig on Abu Dhabi's Breakwater. As our destination was located in an infamous traffic gridlock hot spot, I portended that the hordes of concertgoers amassing there would create a perfect storm of motor car mayhem. So, as we'd probably be forced into a prolonged trek to find a post-concert taxi, I suggested that my partner wear sensible flats.
Off she departed to the bathroom to get changed, while I lounged on my sofa thinking how pleasant it would have been to herald the onset of 2012 in my present spot.
A few minutes later, as she tottered back into the living room wearing a bone-crunching pair of designer stilettos, I foresaw trouble ahead. Of course, I challenged her footwear choice, but she dug her exceedingly lofty heels in and insisted these were her only shoes that matched her jeans. "Well, don't blame me if you get sore feet," I jested as we set out for the evening. Thirty minutes after the concert had finished, and faced with a queue longer than the Salam Street Tunnel, we concurred to further our search for transport by trekking to a nearby hotel, only to find a line of equal size.
I won't recall the exact details of our mission to get home, other than to say it involved a hellish hike, plenty of complaining (on her part) and a lot of resisting the urge to say "I told you so" (on my part) before we finally commandeered a complete stranger's limousine.
As we arrived back at our apartment as dawn began to break, there was only one way to obviate impending divorce. I admitted full culpability for my partner's blistered feet, apologised profusely and all was rosy in our relationship the next day.
So there you have it Professor Hawking. Mystery solved. Now, where's my Nobel Prize?