Marriage Diaries: My wife's a chronic complainer and I'm sick of it

Telegraph

2 days ago

It all began with the chicken stew, served in a pub while my wife and I were on holiday in Devon. The chicken was so overcooked and dry that it was inedible. We both agreed it was like trying to eat feathers, but did we complain? Did we heck? We just paid and left hungry, but in the car afterwards, we both admitted that we absolutely should have said something, and my wife resolved there and then to be a born-again complainer.
Clearly, she meant it because ever since that fateful fricassee, she has gone from strength to strength in exercising her consumer rights.
Watch out, Watchdog, there's a new sheriff in town.
Her new regime started with the cabbie who kept his meter running on our driveway while my wife ran into the house to get cash and by the time she came out she was a fiver short. I wasn't there, but she recounted the tale of the taxi to me afterwards saying she flat-out refused to pay more, the fare should have stopped when they reached the destination, and it wasn't her fault he didn't have a card machine. An argument ensued. My wife didn't back down. Neighbours and passers-by all joined in the uprising, and he grabbed the cash and high-tailed it off to his next fare. Win.
Next up, the delivery guy whose package for us looked like it had recently been used as a football that had then been sat on at half-time. My wife took a picture of it and refused to accept it. Another win.
However, I'm now starting to think that we've created a bit of a monster as each successful complaint and stand-off has emboldened her further, to the point where she now seems to be looking for things to kick up a stink about.
Eating out is stressful because there are so many points of potential conflict. The demeanour of the staff. The duration between ordering and eating. And that's before we even get to the food itself. Will the carrots be orange enough for her?
Even if everything is to her satisfaction, she then turns to everyone else around the table to ask how our meals are. 'Delicious,' we all reply in unison, to avoid further conflict.
Airbnb and hotel rooms are another target-rich environment for her, and as soon as we're through the door, the inspection levels rival those of a British Army barracks.
What I'd like her to do is strike the right balance between not saying boo to a goose (or an inedible chicken) and being an unholy pain in the backside.
And, I've realised to do that, I need to find my voice, my inner complainer. I'm not talking about joining the queues clogging up the customer service desks of this world, but I need to complain to my wife about her complaining. Talking to her in a language she'll surely understand.
And I know I need to do this urgently before we go on holiday this summer because we've never set foot in an airport without there being a problem with one of our family's carry-ons: weight, size, wrong colour, too many zips.
However, this is the first time we'll have done so since my wife found her inner Matt Allwright. So, when they hit us with the inevitable surcharge, we'll see what happens when the unstoppable force that is now my wife comes face-to-face with the immovable object that is the budget airline check-in desk.
So, if you're at Heathrow this summer I can only apologise in advance if your flight's delayed. It may not be the airline's fault. It may be mine. I'm just trying to find the right moment to tell my wife. The thing is, I hate complaining.