A kitchen sink drama
‘We had a terrible row just before you all arrived,’ I was saying in a stage whisper over breakfast on Sunday morning, fortified by an iron skillet of bacon and eggs sizzled on the Aga. We’d reached the toast and second round of coffee stage, and the reason I was whispering was my husband Ivo was still upstairs in bed after a restless night, and I didn’t want him to hear my whinge and rev up the row. Geoff’s buttery knife remained poised over the jar of marmalade. Like many men, he can’t multitask, to the extent that he can neither speak nor listen to someone else speaking without freezing, like deer when they spot a hunter on the hill. I summarised the proximate as opposed to underlying causes of the row for Geoff and co.
