There comes a time in any human male’s life when a pet wildebeest will appear like an attractive thing. Such as with today’s human male, whom has one that goes by the name of Cinderella.

This beast lives in his flat with his girlfriend, whom is not at all happy about this lifestyle development. Thus, and as such, the agony aunt experts are on hand to deal with this horny matter.

When a Man Has a Pet Wildebeest

Dear agony aunt,

My boyfriend Simon has reached 30 and IT… has happened. A mid-life crisis. I’ve seen this before with man babies, they hit that big 3 number and all of a sudden he has a pet wildebeest he’s called Cinderella and, to be honest, I don’t see a pet at all. I see my boyfriend manifesting through that beast a need for the thunder hooves of personal agency.

This is no beast he’s brought into our flat at all.

It’s his… vulnerability.

He ignores my pleas to stop the beast from licking the microwave, from drinking out of the toilet bowl, from braying manically at 3am for 17 minute intervals etc. Yet I know what this all means. He’s (my boyfriend, not Cinderella) saying to me: “This, babe, is my WILD side!”

Trying to ignore my boyfriend’s childish behaviour, I attempted communication with Cinderella. I opened us up a joint Pinterest board and tried to get the snorting monster into interior design. The result? Cinderella kicked me in the shins and my shins now really hurt.

That having failed, I confronted my boyfriend. Paraphrasing slightly, but this is how the conversation went:

“Simon, hun?”

“Yes, babe?”

“We need to talk about Cinderella, Simon.”

“Okay. You look hot today though, babe, is that a new pair of matching socks you’ve got on?”

“Yes, I just yesterday bought these from Primark! Aren’t they cute!?”

“Yes, babe, we should go and get more from Primark and stop at Maccy Ds on the…”

“Hang on a minute! This attempt at REVERSE PSYCHOLOGY won’t work on me, Simon!”

“Babe, I just want to get you more socks and a Big Mac with…”

“Simon! Cinderella is chewing at your head!”

“Yes, babe, it’s called AFFECTION and it’s WHAT YOU NEVER GIVE ME, BABE!!!!”

He looked really indignant and self-righteous when he shouted that last bit and he sat on the sofa and sulked, all while Cinderella munched on his hair creating this big bald patch on his skull.

“Simon?”

He ignored me. Only when his scalp started bleeding did he get up and storm out of the flat. He was gone for three hours. I went to find him and he was at the local McDonald’s on his ninth Big Mac. He refused to speak to me. Reminder that Simon has just turned 30…

I went home and Cinderella had crapped all over the floor (again).

So I decided it was time to divorce Simon, even though we’re not married, so I called a divorce lawyer (or whatever they’re called) to send the forms over. When they did arrive through the letterbox, Cinderella munched on them and ate the forms.

Simon laughed. I threw one of my high heels at him and gave him a skull fracture, which I later told the police was caused by Cinderella munching on his head. Simon is really concussed so can’t remember what happened, with the police removing Cinderella and taking the beast back to a local zoo.

This all ended rather happily, due to my cleverness (and one instance of explosive rage), but I wanted to enquire how long concussion lasts for? It’s a week later and he’s still referring to himself as Simone and wearing my new socks. They’re my socks. Not his. I want this to end!

Yours,

Lauren

Hi there, Lauren. Concussions can last for up to 365 years and are, typically, fatal within 125 years. We’re sorry to be the bringer of bad news, but Simon is done for. Dump the doomed SOB and go out with Brad Pitt (as a suggestion, but other A list celebrities are just as acceptable).