Articles in “Strange Conversations”

Nick and I split the preparations for a party:

NICK: I’m going to vacuum now.
ME: No.
NICK: I’ve finished the dusting!
ME: This table and lamp haven’t been dusted.
NICK: Yeah.
ME: Nor has this table.
NICK: Okay.
ME: And I’m pretty sure you haven’t dusted this one because it has a stale cracker on it.
NICK: You see things I don’t see.
ME: Like furniture?

Last night:

ME: It’s cold. Richard the Third and I think it’s cold.
NICK: I don’t get that. Oh! “Now is the winter of our discontent”?
ME: I was talking about my bookmark, but that’s quite clever.

ME: Behold! Nicholas returns home, and the house is filled with light.
NICK: I am the King of Light! The Lord of Light?
ME: You leave a lot of lights on.
NICK: That’s … similar.

ME: I have read a book about killer unicorns. Now I should watch some football.
NICK: The Rampart or whatever one?
ME: Rampant, honey. Like the heraldry.
NICK: That’s the one. Ah, of course!
ME: Not ‘rampart’ like the architecture.
NICK: Heh. I was having a Heroes of Might and Magic moment.
ME: Really? You should see someone about that.
NICK: I think there’s a cream you can get for it.
ME: Okay, ew.

In which I fret about whether or not I’ve bombarded my editor with questions:

NICK: Editor’s lives aren’t meant to be easy. I am a geeenius!
ME: That’s a plural possessive, genius.
NICK: Not that kind of genius.
ME: What kind?
NICK: The Nick kind.

Nick wanders into the bedroom with his iPhone, after an evening of exhausting iPadding:

ME: Oh, look—it’s the return of the repressed.
NICK: It’s not repressed! It’s lovely!
ME: You haven’t looked at it once all night.
NICK: Well, they say the iPad really extends the battery life on the iPhone.

ME: I need a new title for my novel, but I can’t think what.
NICK: It’s a pity the two kingdoms don’t have names. You could call it From X to Y.
ME: From Here to Eternity?
NICK: From Justin to Kelly.

What a shame From Russia with Love is already taken.

In which Nick learns the dangers of, firstly, letting his girlfriend follow him on Twitter and, secondly, baiting an over-tired girlfriend:

ME: Honey, I don’t know what that was that you just tweeted, but I’m sure it can’t be as important as the washing up.
NICK: I’m just about to get on with that.
ME: Good.
NICK: But what I’ve done is . . .
ME: No.
NICK: But it’s . . .
ME: I have one paper to go.
NICK: But it’s the coolest . . .
ME: I’ve had five hours’ sleep.
NICK: But . . .
ME: Head injury!
NICK: I’m done.

(I don’t still have a head injury, of course, though there’s still a dent in my forehead. But it is why I’m so behind on my work and running on so little sleep.)

Reverse psychology:

NICK: How do you like my new stripy boxers?
ME: Very nice, darling. You should go to the shops in those.
NICK: Don’t tempt me!
ME: Why not?
(Pause)
NICK: Okay. I won’t.

From an IM conversation (which also included this. OMG!):

ME: Retweet that picture! Other people need to see that!
NICK: Ok.
ME: I should go. I have a list of things to do. The last one is “totally panic.”
NICK: Cross that one off then.
ME: And that’s only re. my MS. Well, one of my MSS. Cross it off?
NICK: Cross off “totally panic”.
ME: It’s the only one I’ve achieved!
NICK: Well, there you go then.

ME: So this is how you choose to spend your evening? Bringing mathematics to the pixellated Greeks?
NICK: Everyone needs a mission. A hobby, if you will.
ME: Adding “if you will” after a perfectly normal noun doesn’t make it portentous.
NICK: Does it not?
ME: No. And neither does messing with the syntax.

NICK (in hallway): What time do you want Mum round tomorrow?
ME (in the shower, gingerly avoiding various bruises and contusions): What?
NICK (in hallway): I said, “What time do you want Mum round tomorrow?”
ME (in shower): Are you on the phone right now?
NICK (in hallway): What?
ME (in hallway): I said, “Are you on the phone right now?”
NICK (in hallway): No. Text message.
ME (in shower): Then it can wait till I’m not naked.
NICK (in hallway): What?

ME: I feel a bit guilty about taking the day off and delaying my marking.
NICK: Why?
ME: Well, it’s only a blow on the head. Maybe I’m making a big deal out of it.
NICK: Okay, rewind that a bit. It’s a blow on the head. You should be making a big deal out of it.
ME: Yeah, but—
NICK: It’s a blow on the head. Stop fretting about it.
ME: You stop making me frown. It makes my lump hurt.

Since it’s been nearly twenty-four hours since yesterday’s blow to the head, we’re assuming my chances of bleeding into my brain are greatly reduced. (The chances were never high, before anyone panics. I know you were going to panic.) But Nick likes to make contingency plans.

NICK: But with the less serious head injuries, sometimes it can be weeks before something happens.
ME: I know! And you’re walking and talking, and then you fall down dead.
NICK: But if we’re vigilant, we can catch it.
ME: I thought the whole point was that you just fell down dead with no warning?
NICK: If you start slurring your speech, I’ll know. BAM!
ME: I might just be drunk.
NICK: Then from now on, there’s no more alcohol. BAM!
ME: That would really ratchet up the irritability, which is another symptom.
NICK: True.
ME: You’d just be masking all the symptoms.
NICK: It’s not easy, is it?

This sums up my life, especially at 7:30 on a Monday night:

ME: Sweetheart, I love you, but you have to stop performing a mouth-orchestra counterpoint to ‘Every Rose Has its Thorn’ while I am trying to write.
NICK: Sorry.