In which the Long-Suffering Husband raises a deeply disturbing question

It’s happened.

The moment I have been dreading for some time has finally arrived.

He’s snapped.

My beloved Long-Suffering Husband woke up this morning with the oddest expression on his face. Now, LSH has always been a man of a more philosophical than practical disposition. While other husbands concern themselves with such mundane matters as leaking taps and household repairs, mine prefers to contemplate the great mysteries of existence.

This morning, however, he surpassed himself.

“How do Smurfs reproduce?” he asked.

I stared at him.

“What the fuck?”

Apparently, he’d woken up with the Smurf Song going round in his head, which had somehow led him to ponder the reproductive arrangements of the little blue creatures living in the woods.

I have been married to this man for several years, and I still occasionally wonder what goes on inside his head.

Naturally, being the devoted and dutiful wife that I am (stop sniggering at the back; I can hear you), I immediately turned to Google.

It turns out that the reproductive habits of Smurfs are a subject of considerable debate among the more peculiar inhabitants of the internet.

Of course they are.

One might have hoped that humanity would devote its collective intellectual resources to curing cancer, ending poverty or developing a washing machine that doesn’t eat socks.

Instead, we are discussing Smurf genitalia.

And there are questions.

Unlike Donald Duck, who has spent decades wandering about without trousers and apparently considers this perfectly acceptable, the Smurfs are fully clothed below the waist.

Why?

What exactly are they concealing?

One assumes there must be something worth covering, unless the trousers are merely a fashion statement.

Then there’s Smurfette.

The only female in an entire village of little blue men, and what does she wear?

A dress and high heels.

Honestly.

If ever there was an example of gender stereotyping, this is it.

What woman in her right mind would bother with high heels when she finds herself in the rather enviable position of being the only female in a village full of men?

It’s rather like announcing that you’ve become a strict vegan at the precise moment you arrive at an all-you-can-eat meat buffet.

For a fiver.

I have no idea how Smurfs reproduce.

And, until this morning, I had never felt the slightest need to find out.

But thanks to my husband, I shall probably spend the rest of the day wondering.

This is what happens when you marry an intellectual.

Other women get flowers.

I get Smurf sex.