Will:I have sad news: it looks as if I will have to kill Christina. I know, I know, she’s a nice girl, but once I explain, you’ll agree. You see, it has come to my attention that Christina is one of The Enemy. That’s right – Christina is one of those people who keeps all the unwashed dishes in the sink.
You know the people I mean: people who will put all the plates from lunch at the bottom of the sink, then put the previous evening’s curry pan on top, then run the cold tap on the whole mess for a bit, as if that’s going to help. You want to shout at them: stop, you fool! Those plates only had a bit of bread on them, and now you’re covering them with curry grease and bits of rice! But they won’t listen, because they are The Enemy, and they want you to suffer. They want you to have to reach into a saucepan full of cold, eggy-smelling water in order to retrieve a teaspoon, which had only had a single tear of milky tea running down its surface, but was consigned to the manky egg-pan as part of some insane plan by The Enemy, a plan which has resulted in the teaspoon becoming dirtier than ever before!
Worst of all, you both know that you’re going to have to remove all of this stuff from the sink in order to start doing the washing up, but The Enemy cares not a jot. All The Enemy cares about is short-term appearances: that the plates aren’t on a work surface. Why? Is the Work Surface Inspector going to fine me for a Cluttering Offence? The ineffective splash-baptism the plates receive is intended to make it look like the washing-up process is being taken care of, but all that’s happened is that the least dirty plates and utensils have been covered in the skanky stuff from the cooking pans.
In her defence, Christina tells me that she’s only adopted this practice because our kitchen is the size of one of Ronnie Corbett’s shoes. This is true. Also, she is a fine woman in every other respect, so perhaps I won’t actually kill her. Some sort of spring-loaded sink trap should do the trick.
Or I could just do the washing up.
This is going to be my lair once I'm evil
The trouble with working from home is that it’s easy to become lazy about your personal presentation. When I got up this morning I put on my running clothes and so I didn’t bother having a shower or doing my hair and make-up. It is now almost two in the afternoon, I still haven’t been for a run and I look like a sad ‘before’ picture in a magazine makeover. Will, too, is unwashed, unshaven and has just removed his glasses because his face is so greasy that they were sliding off his nose.
Happily, this isn’t always the case and we do make an effort when we venture outside. On Wednesday we visited Montserrat, a mountain with a monastery which is about 30 miles north-west of Barcelona. There are a few ways of getting up to the monastery - by foot, car, train or funicular. We decided on the Aeri de Montserrat, which transports you 544m upwards in a bright yellow cable car that dangles precariously over the river and valley below.
Reading the Wikipedia article now, I see that there are many fascinating things we could have done on our trip: we could have seen the world’s oldest printing press, works by Picasso and Dali or the Virgin of Montserrat. We didn’t see any of that but we did see a Spanish Ibex on our way back down from the mountain’s summit. This might sound like the name of a bank but it is, in fact, a wild mountain goat with huge horns. I have written that with an air of authority but at the time, I didn’t have a bloody clue and said to Will: “er, is that a ram?” Will replied, “no, it’s an Ibex. It’s a goat with massive horns!” We were both uneasy. Goats aren’t usually scary animals but you try remembering that when a be-horned beast is staring intently at you. We stood there gulping for a few minutes before deciding that the best thing to do would be to walk quickly and confidently past the animal. As we scuttled past, the goat gave a frightened little bleat and ran off, clearly more scared of us than we were of him.
The monastery from above, some 4,500ft from the plain below. A place of goats.