you’re all Europeans?’
‘Because then we wouldn’t be allowed to make jokes about foreigners.’
‘Which is after all a central British tradition.’
‘Look, go to any city in Europe and the stores are more or less the same. At times you wonder where you are. Internal borders hardly exist. Plastic’s replacing money, the internet’s replacing everything else. And more and more people speak English, which makes it even easier. So why not admit the reality?’
‘But that’s another British trait we cling to. Not accepting reality.’
‘Like hypocrisy.’
‘Don’t get her started on that. You rode that hobby horse to death last time, darling.’
‘Did I?’
‘Riding a hobby horse to death is flogging a dead metaphor.’
‘What is the difference between a metaphor and a simile, by the way?’
‘Marmalade.’
‘Which of you two is driving?’
‘Have you made yours?’
‘You know, I always spot the Sevilles when they first come in and then never get around to buying any.’
‘One of the last fruit or veg still obedient to the concept of a season. I wish the world would go back to that.’
‘No you don’t. You’d have turnips and swedes on the trot all winter.’
‘When I was a boy, we had this big sideboard in the kitchen with deep drawers at the bottom, and once a year they’d all suddenly be full of marmalade. It was like a miracle. I never saw my mum making it. I’d come home from school, and there’d be this smell, and I’d go to the sideboard, and it was all full of pots. All of them labelled. Still warm. And it had to last us the whole year.’
‘My dear Phil. Cue rheumy tear and violins. This was when you were stuffing newspaper into your shoes as you trudged to your holiday job at t’mill?’
‘Fuck off, Dick.’
‘Claude says this is the last week for Sevilles.’
‘I knew it. I’m going to miss out again.’
‘There’s a pun in Shakespeare on “Seville” and “civil”. Not that I can remember what it is.’
‘You can freeze them, you know.’
‘You should see our freezer already. I don’t want it to become an even greater repository of guilt.’
‘Sounds like those damn bankers – repositories of gilt.’
‘They don’t look very guilty.’
‘I was trying to make a pun, sweetie.’
‘Who’s Claude?’
‘He’s our greengrocer. He’s French. Actually, French Tunisian.’
‘Well, that’s another thing. How many of your traditional shopkeepers are English any more? Around here, anyway. A quarter, a third?’
‘Speaking of which, did I tell you about the home bowel-screening kit the government kindly sent me now I’m officially an old git?’
‘Dick, must you?’
‘I promise not to offend, though the temptation is glittering.’
‘It’s just that you get so potty-mouthed with booze.’
‘Then I shall be demure. Prim. Leave everything to the imagination. They send you this kit, with a plasticky envelope in which to send back the – how shall I put it? – necessary evidence. Two specimens taken on each of three separate days. And you have to fill in the date of each sample.’
‘How do you … capture the sample? Do you have to fish it out?’
‘No, on the contrary. It must be uncontaminated by water.’
‘Then …’
‘I have promised to restrict myself to the language of Miss Austen. I’m sure they had paper towels and little cardboard sticks back then, and probably a nursery game called Catch It If You Can.’
‘ Dick .’
‘That reminds me, I had to see a proctologist once, and he told me one way to check my condition – whatever it was, I deliberately forget – was to squat down over a mirror on the floor. Somehow, I thought I’d rather risk whatever it was I might be getting.’
‘Doubtless some of you are wondering why I raised the subject.’
‘It’s because you get potty-mouthed with booze.’
‘A sufficient but not a necessary condition. No, you see, I did my first test last Thursday, and I was just
‘Because then we wouldn’t be allowed to make jokes about foreigners.’
‘Which is after all a central British tradition.’
‘Look, go to any city in Europe and the stores are more or less the same. At times you wonder where you are. Internal borders hardly exist. Plastic’s replacing money, the internet’s replacing everything else. And more and more people speak English, which makes it even easier. So why not admit the reality?’
‘But that’s another British trait we cling to. Not accepting reality.’
‘Like hypocrisy.’
‘Don’t get her started on that. You rode that hobby horse to death last time, darling.’
‘Did I?’
‘Riding a hobby horse to death is flogging a dead metaphor.’
‘What is the difference between a metaphor and a simile, by the way?’
‘Marmalade.’
‘Which of you two is driving?’
‘Have you made yours?’
‘You know, I always spot the Sevilles when they first come in and then never get around to buying any.’
‘One of the last fruit or veg still obedient to the concept of a season. I wish the world would go back to that.’
‘No you don’t. You’d have turnips and swedes on the trot all winter.’
‘When I was a boy, we had this big sideboard in the kitchen with deep drawers at the bottom, and once a year they’d all suddenly be full of marmalade. It was like a miracle. I never saw my mum making it. I’d come home from school, and there’d be this smell, and I’d go to the sideboard, and it was all full of pots. All of them labelled. Still warm. And it had to last us the whole year.’
‘My dear Phil. Cue rheumy tear and violins. This was when you were stuffing newspaper into your shoes as you trudged to your holiday job at t’mill?’
‘Fuck off, Dick.’
‘Claude says this is the last week for Sevilles.’
‘I knew it. I’m going to miss out again.’
‘There’s a pun in Shakespeare on “Seville” and “civil”. Not that I can remember what it is.’
‘You can freeze them, you know.’
‘You should see our freezer already. I don’t want it to become an even greater repository of guilt.’
‘Sounds like those damn bankers – repositories of gilt.’
‘They don’t look very guilty.’
‘I was trying to make a pun, sweetie.’
‘Who’s Claude?’
‘He’s our greengrocer. He’s French. Actually, French Tunisian.’
‘Well, that’s another thing. How many of your traditional shopkeepers are English any more? Around here, anyway. A quarter, a third?’
‘Speaking of which, did I tell you about the home bowel-screening kit the government kindly sent me now I’m officially an old git?’
‘Dick, must you?’
‘I promise not to offend, though the temptation is glittering.’
‘It’s just that you get so potty-mouthed with booze.’
‘Then I shall be demure. Prim. Leave everything to the imagination. They send you this kit, with a plasticky envelope in which to send back the – how shall I put it? – necessary evidence. Two specimens taken on each of three separate days. And you have to fill in the date of each sample.’
‘How do you … capture the sample? Do you have to fish it out?’
‘No, on the contrary. It must be uncontaminated by water.’
‘Then …’
‘I have promised to restrict myself to the language of Miss Austen. I’m sure they had paper towels and little cardboard sticks back then, and probably a nursery game called Catch It If You Can.’
‘ Dick .’
‘That reminds me, I had to see a proctologist once, and he told me one way to check my condition – whatever it was, I deliberately forget – was to squat down over a mirror on the floor. Somehow, I thought I’d rather risk whatever it was I might be getting.’
‘Doubtless some of you are wondering why I raised the subject.’
‘It’s because you get potty-mouthed with booze.’
‘A sufficient but not a necessary condition. No, you see, I did my first test last Thursday, and I was just
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