On my return trip I fly via Salt Lake City Utah, home of the Mormons. While there exists some residual danger of being murdered by church elders, or accidentally acquiring some extra wives, I thought it worth the risk just to avoid Atlanta’s bag-sucking vortex of misery.
There are no obvious signs of deviancy in the terminal. Maybe everyone here is in transit, while the natives shun the airport with its godless flying machines. I browse the t-shirts on sale while I wait for my connection. References to polygamy outnumber references to massacring defenceless women and children by a considerable margin. The Wasatch Brewery Co. extolls its Polygamy Porter Ale (motto: “Why just have one?”). “The plural of spouse is spice!” proclaims another popular item, which for some reason is not available in women’s sizes. I dare say they sold out. Winter and extreme sports are also well represented themes - mooses (meese?) snowboard, dogs leap into mosh-pits, and a creature that might be a beaver is doing something unattractive to a log. Everyone seems to be having fun and no-one is pictured perched on a sofa waving an ersatz Bible at their miserable browbeaten hosts.
Out the window all is cold and bright under a china-blue sky, and the snow on the surrounding mountains glitters and beckons. In the clear upcountry air they look close enough to reach out and touch. Maybe an extra wife or two is not such a heavy price to pay. I resolve to broach the subject with Mrs Terrible, but females, especially pregnant ones, are notoriously unsound on the topic. In deference to her delicate condition I decide to save the good news for another time – ie, when she is not within waddling range of any sharp throwables.
She greets my hero’s return with a heart-warming smile and a big hug, which I return for a full thirty seconds. Yes, wife #2 will have a lot to live up to…
Some Mormons, yesterday. Note the immaculately ironed shirts. Some serious wifely elbow-grease went into them, I’ll bet.