I enjoy the unheard of priviledge of being welcomed into the P's kitchen, which has a large round dining table with one of those revolving things in the middle like a chinese restaurant, covered in an array of condiments.
The Upper Middle Class are big on condiments. It might be a throwback to disguising the taste of game that has been hung too long?
"Do you want some cold sausage?"
"Ok"
I am introduced to Mr P's daughter, young, blonde, confident, relatively attractive, with a life of duty ahead of her combined perhaps with frivolity? who knows?
Mr P. goes into a laboured description of the problems of finding a plumber that is au fait with following a schematic diagram in German for connecting up the new wood chip fired heating plant. Mr P's daughter finishes her tomato soup and quietly disappears off.
"Can't you get that guy that usually installs these things?"
"Well he'd have done just fine but he's gone and got himself cancer."
"Cancer? He seemed perfectly alright about five weeks ago."
"No, he's not even allowed to drive a car now."
"You just don't know...when"
"My uncle who used to live in this house, one day he announced 'From today I'm on borrowed time!' He'd taken the average of his parents ages and then he lived for precisely one year longer."
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