Our sink is blue and we’re not talking about it. It happened over a week ago; I was leaning over the sink, brushing my teeth, when I noticed that there was a sort of lazuline patina that had seeped over most of the surface. Margret hasn’t mentioned anything about this. Why she hasn’t is that she’s obviously tried to clean the sink with, well, I don’t know, some fluid used for stripping entrenched cerriped colonies from the hulls of submarines or something (they were probably offering three bottles of the stuff for the price of two at Aldi). She is waiting for me to mention it. But I am a wily fox, and will be doing nothing of the sort. I’m no wet-behind-the-ears, naive youth anymore, not by a looooong way, and I can perfectly see the spiked pit the seemingly innocent words, ‘Did you know the sink’s blue’ are covering. It would go - precisely - like this: Me: Did you know the sink’s blue? Margret: Yes. I did. I used a jungle exfoliant produced by the Taiwanese military to clean it, and it discoloured the surface. Me: Oooooooo. K. Margret: Well maybe, just maybe, if you cleaned the sink once in a while… You see what she did there? Now I’m facing a whole day of ‘When did you last…?’ Well, not this canny fellow - not this time, my friends. Our sink is blue and we’re not talking about it.

i think i will go get the books. i can’t stop reading this