Crying.

Maybe men won't get this, but perhaps some of the ladies will.
All three of us fatcat siblings are champion criers. We like crying and can do so at the drop of a hat. This gift precludes my mother because to cry one needs tear ducts and a bit of a heart.
I am not convinced she has either.
Anyhoo, as dedicated criers we think nothing about it. We cry about happy things (passing exams/having children/finding shoe sales) sad things (loss of fathers/beloved pets) annoying things (losing keys/forgetting mobiles phones/ being constantly reminded that time ticks on and our wombs won't last forever) sore things (catching thumbs in door/ twisting ankles in highheels) cute french bulldog puppies(that would be me) Credit card bills (Etheline) children flushing jewellery down the loo (eldest sister).
Basically we cry about pretty much everything. Not for ages, just microwave bursts that soothe us. This used to annoy the fanny off our mother who would throw her hands up and go 'Oh great, here come the waterworks!' We would then cry at her heartlessness and so on until she wandered off in disgust. Then we would cry in delight at our victory over the great lilac beast.
Really, we see no shame in it. We can, of course, not cry when it suits us. And not cry very well. But that's a whole other thing entirely.
I myself an an ambi-crier. I can cry over two separate things at the one time, totally independent of each other. Etheline can do that too, my eldest sister says she can but we have our doubts.
My point?
Well, sometimes we are inclined to forget that some people don't have this gift. And might be...oh say, perturbed by it.

Last night while the paramour sat in a pub somewhere watching the Arsenal, Etheline-who still has not left her womanly hipped fiance- and I cracked open a bottle of wine and sat down to watch Terms of Endearment, a sad film and one of our favourites. Cue much tears and sniffling. Especially that scene where Shirley comes down the hall to the nurses station screaming about her daughter being in pain and why won't anyone help her...
So any way, at the end of the film, there we were, curled on the sofa, hugging various cats and sniffing and talking about shoes in Brown Thomas and what to get our mother for Christmas when the paramour arrived home, a bottle of plonk under his arm.
He opened up the sitting room door, stepped in, took one look at us and froze.
'Hello.' I blubbered.
'Hello.' Etheline sobbed.
The paramour looked stricken. He took a deep breath, put the bottle down and said. 'Okay, what's happened? What it is?'
Etheline and I exchanged watery glances. 'What?'
'What's going on, you might as well tell me out straight.'
'On?'
'Why are you two crying.'
'Oh, Terms of Endearment.'
'What?'
'Film.'
I can't say he looked relieved, he managed irked however and a bit pale. He said. 'Jesus Christ' under his breath and 'I'm going for a shower.'
'Okay.'
Then he looked at us again and shook his head. I think he might have said 'Jesus christ' once more.
'What's his problem?' Etheline said wiping steaks of mascara from her cheek.
'Dunno.' I said, reaching for a tissue to blow my nose. 'I wish people would stop wearing open toed shoes with tights.'
'Oh that reminds me, I saw-'

Poor old sausage, he's really going to have to toughen up.