There was once an idealistic male who swore that he would only marry the perfect woman.
Over many years and in many lands, he searched in vain. He met hundreds of charming, attractive, even seductive, women but none of them met his basic requirement.
This was that the perfect woman would serve his tea exactly as he liked it. When he was offered this homely beverage, he always said: “Just half a cup, please.” But the ladies always handed him a full cup regardless.
At long last, and in mellow middle age, he encountered a truly delightful matronly personage who possessed all the attributes for the ideal spouse. She shared his tastes in almost everything, and was a wonderful cook. Scarcely daring to hope that his long-cherished dream was about to come true, the Idealist asked for a cup of tea.
“How do you like it?” the lady asked. “Milk? Sugar? Lemon?”
“Just half a cup, please” he replied.
Almost trembling, he watched her pour out exactly half a cup. He reached his hand out to take it.
“Oh bother”, the Perfect Wife-to-Be exclaimed. “The pot’s run dry!”