We’ve become these people that, like, act almost kind of cool, and adult, and stuff. We lounge around with our Macs, in our slightly hip outfits (him: Croc sneakers–though please don’t picture these, because his are actually really, surprisingly groovy plus he bought them from a man on the street for the price of two pints–khakis, and a Banana Republic jumper; me: black skinny jeans (yes, I finally caved), slightly ethnic scarf, long cardigan (according to the Observer magazine, cardigans are “in”)–actually, the image almost disgusts me. We cook breakfast, have friends over for casual lunches. I sit under a duvet drinking lots of tea and eating clementines (and I’m not the only one) while he catches the second half of the Spurs v Portsmouth game. When he comes home we watch a few episodes of 30 Rock and order a curry.
“You’re not eating the nob of your sausage?” he says when I remove the end of my lamb and place it back in the container.
“No,” I say. “I got bored with it.”
He picks it up, eats it. I’m chewing and gesturing wildly, like I have something really important to say.
“You’re going to make a joke about the nob of my sausage,” he says. I swallow.
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I am.”
(Maybe not so adult.)