Wives: Give that girl a diamond.

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I was disturbed in my office by the sound of an old man in a hospital gown shuffling past my door. He was clutching a drip stand with one hand, a nurse supporting him by holding his other elbow. A urinary catheter trailed from the open back of his gown, the old man's wife walking patiently behind holding the half-full bag of urine.

 A thought hit me like an epiphany:
If you didn't have one of them, you'd go straight out and get one. 
(A wife, that is, not a half-full bag of urine.)  



So I want all you good old boys out there to pay very close attention.
Your drinking buddies won't be wiping your arse when you are too old and buggered and disabled and sick and dying to do it yourself. 
Your bloody wife will.

So how about you spend a bit more time with her now, as a kind of down-payment for future services. 
How about you talk with her and share a drink with her and make her feel good about living with you, you fat, smelly bastard.

Give that girl a diamond, and say it's from me. 
(and Chris).