Told The Husband about the Showroom Gays earlier this evening.
“They sit at a pine table for breakfast — opposite each other. He does the washing on a Sunday afternoon and, in the evenings, they have moody up-lighting in the lounge. I think we should redecorate. Stiffkey Blue.”
“You covet their life, don’t you?” he said disappointingly.
“A little. They don’t just plump their cushions, they put a kink in them like hotels do.”
The Husband looked surprised.
“It’s not like I had my nose pressed against the glass. I might possibly slow down a bit when I pass their house every night, but I’m not a peeping tom.”
“They probably have a cleaner in once a week.”
I carried on chopping the onions, and flipped the potatoes so they didn’t burn. Got him to whip the eggs for the omelette.
I chanced my arm. “What’s the hourly rate for a cleaner?”
“I’ve got this,” he said, “I’ll clear it all up. You get in the shower.”