said.
Oh?
It’s irritated all over. Can you see?
This is madness, Nina.
Madness to some maybe. These things happen, it’s the way of the world.
Don’t you like me any more?
It’s not a question of liking or not liking. My body is trying to tell me something.
And you’re listening?
My body knows.
Are you sure of that?
Oh, yes, Telemann. The body knows. Yours does too.
Mine’s trying to tell me we should make love a couple of dozen times.
That’s of no interest to my body.
So what it’s trying to tell you then?
I don’t know.
But it doesn’t sound too promising for our relationship, to say the least.
No, agreed.
Maybe it’s because I didn’t wash my hands carefully enough after cooking. Nigella uses lots of spices which are sometimes rather exotic. Maybe your skin reacts to external contact with them.
It’s not that, Telemann, it’s you.
How can you be sure of that?
I just can.
No, you can’t.
Anyway it’s her fault.
Eh?
Nigella’s.
Eh?
She’s stuffed your head with crazy ideas.
Eh?
It’s her fault.
Are you jealous of Nigella?
No. I just don’t like her.
Is it because she has big breasts, and is always happy and hungry?
I think you want to be free of me, and Nigella has made your body produce some substance which pushes me away from you.
Eh?
That’s what I believe.
There’s no way I can get Nigella.
Ha! So that means you do want to have her.
Wanting her can be many things. That’s not how life works.
You want to have her!
Of course I want her on one level. But that has nothing to do with the real world. If I hadn’t been married to you, but fancy-free and attractive in Nigella’s eyes and she had knocked on my door and had offered herself I would not have said no, I have to admit, then I would have gone for it, ho ho, but that is not a scenario that I visualise or have any intention of trying to bring to fruition.
You’re kidding yourself.
No, I’m not.
Yes, you are.
Come on, Nina.
Stop saying ‘come on’. It’s a form of bossiness. It’s patronising.
What?
Don’t say ‘come on’.
I’ll say what I like. Nigella lives in Eaton Square in London, in a house worth maybe 70 million. She’s one of the world’s most famous TV chefs, and on top of that she’s married to one of the richest men in Britain. You and I, on the other hand, are here, in southern Germany, in Bavaria, the cradle of Nazism…
Don’t say the cradle of Nazism.
I’ll bloody well say what I like. If I want to say ‘come on’, I’ll say ‘come on’. If I want to say the cradle of Nazism, I’ll say the cradle of Nazism.
I think you should show some respect for what I think you shouldn’t say.
Will you let me finish?
Alright.
What I was in the middle of saying was that we, you and I, are fairly ordinary people, you’re a teacher and I’m a theatre person…
You’re a theatre director, Telemann, that’s what you are.
That’s right, but I’m trying to… yes, well, the point nonetheless is that neither you nor I lives in a dream world, on the contrary we work quite hard, live in a normal house, have three kids and at this moment we’re on holiday and when I ask you to make love you give me this crazy tale about irritated skin and Nigella causing me to produce substances that push you away from me. I’m here, Nina! With you! In Mixing Part Churches!
It’s not called Mixing Part Churches.
Come on! Do you realise what you’re saying?
Don’t say ‘come on’.
But do you realise what you’re saying?
Of course I realise what I’m saying.
This is absolutely insane. I’m not going to leave you, you know that.
Yes, you are. That’s what you want. You walk around lost in thought and when I ask you something you always say you’re thinking about the theatre.
But that’s what I am thinking.
No, you’re not.
Yes, I am.
Let me see what you’ve written!
Eh?
Let me see what you’ve written this holiday!
But…
No buts!
I haven’t written that
Oh?
It’s irritated all over. Can you see?
This is madness, Nina.
Madness to some maybe. These things happen, it’s the way of the world.
Don’t you like me any more?
It’s not a question of liking or not liking. My body is trying to tell me something.
And you’re listening?
My body knows.
Are you sure of that?
Oh, yes, Telemann. The body knows. Yours does too.
Mine’s trying to tell me we should make love a couple of dozen times.
That’s of no interest to my body.
So what it’s trying to tell you then?
I don’t know.
But it doesn’t sound too promising for our relationship, to say the least.
No, agreed.
Maybe it’s because I didn’t wash my hands carefully enough after cooking. Nigella uses lots of spices which are sometimes rather exotic. Maybe your skin reacts to external contact with them.
It’s not that, Telemann, it’s you.
How can you be sure of that?
I just can.
No, you can’t.
Anyway it’s her fault.
Eh?
Nigella’s.
Eh?
She’s stuffed your head with crazy ideas.
Eh?
It’s her fault.
Are you jealous of Nigella?
No. I just don’t like her.
Is it because she has big breasts, and is always happy and hungry?
I think you want to be free of me, and Nigella has made your body produce some substance which pushes me away from you.
Eh?
That’s what I believe.
There’s no way I can get Nigella.
Ha! So that means you do want to have her.
Wanting her can be many things. That’s not how life works.
You want to have her!
Of course I want her on one level. But that has nothing to do with the real world. If I hadn’t been married to you, but fancy-free and attractive in Nigella’s eyes and she had knocked on my door and had offered herself I would not have said no, I have to admit, then I would have gone for it, ho ho, but that is not a scenario that I visualise or have any intention of trying to bring to fruition.
You’re kidding yourself.
No, I’m not.
Yes, you are.
Come on, Nina.
Stop saying ‘come on’. It’s a form of bossiness. It’s patronising.
What?
Don’t say ‘come on’.
I’ll say what I like. Nigella lives in Eaton Square in London, in a house worth maybe 70 million. She’s one of the world’s most famous TV chefs, and on top of that she’s married to one of the richest men in Britain. You and I, on the other hand, are here, in southern Germany, in Bavaria, the cradle of Nazism…
Don’t say the cradle of Nazism.
I’ll bloody well say what I like. If I want to say ‘come on’, I’ll say ‘come on’. If I want to say the cradle of Nazism, I’ll say the cradle of Nazism.
I think you should show some respect for what I think you shouldn’t say.
Will you let me finish?
Alright.
What I was in the middle of saying was that we, you and I, are fairly ordinary people, you’re a teacher and I’m a theatre person…
You’re a theatre director, Telemann, that’s what you are.
That’s right, but I’m trying to… yes, well, the point nonetheless is that neither you nor I lives in a dream world, on the contrary we work quite hard, live in a normal house, have three kids and at this moment we’re on holiday and when I ask you to make love you give me this crazy tale about irritated skin and Nigella causing me to produce substances that push you away from me. I’m here, Nina! With you! In Mixing Part Churches!
It’s not called Mixing Part Churches.
Come on! Do you realise what you’re saying?
Don’t say ‘come on’.
But do you realise what you’re saying?
Of course I realise what I’m saying.
This is absolutely insane. I’m not going to leave you, you know that.
Yes, you are. That’s what you want. You walk around lost in thought and when I ask you something you always say you’re thinking about the theatre.
But that’s what I am thinking.
No, you’re not.
Yes, I am.
Let me see what you’ve written!
Eh?
Let me see what you’ve written this holiday!
But…
No buts!
I haven’t written that
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