Imagine waking up one morning and your wife saying, let’s not go to work today. Let’s go on a trip! To London! We’ll see a show, we’ll spend a few days, it’ll be fun. Don’t worry, I’ve squared it with your boss – let’s go to the airport. I’ve packed a bag!
Then imagine you get to the airport and your wife’s pal happens to be on the same flight. Isn’t that a coincidence (it was)? Nice that he can take a snap you all happy and excited on the escalators.
Then imagine you go to board the plane to London and you find out that you’re not even going to London, you’re going to NEW FUCKING YORK.
Oh yeah, and you’re going Club Class because you managed to wangle a sneaky upgrade, so you can lie on the flat beds, lounging around in your fancy socks drinking champagne and having afternoon tea at 37,000 feet.
Where are we staying, by the way, asks your shell-shocked husband? Oh, just a wee place in Midtown Manhattan.
Am I the best wife? Hold your judgement, there’s more.
Imagine your wife didn’t actually lie about catching a show and snags front-row seats for Jersey Boys which you’ve been wanting to see for EONS.
Oh, yeah, and imagine your wife finds out your favourite band of like a zillion years release their album whilst you’re there and organises taxis out to the arse-end of Long Island to attend a Q&A launch party thing and you GET TO MEET YOUR HEROES.
Pretty rad wife, eh? But wait, there’s more.
Just consider how exciting it would be if your wife also arranged the perfect New York evening – amazing dinner, a carriage ride in Central Park in the dark and you get to finally sample that £2,000-a-bottle mega-rare bourbon you have always hankered after, only at the bloody Plaza.
Oh, yes, and she secretly colluded with your favourite cousins for them to join you for a few days and gad about town like gleeful kids.
Time for a smug super-wife Plaza toilets selfie, I’d say.
Thank you, New York. You played a blinder in the best surprise ever.