I was talking to Herself the other night.
That in itself isn’t that unusual, as we tend to talk when she is sober enough.
“You used that word again” she said with a scowl that scared the dog.
“What word” said I in my most innocent way.
“I have been reading that thing you write and you used the C-word. You know I hate it.”
“What C-word?” I replied with an air of alter-boy innocence. “Cucumber? Copernicus? Crumbatiousness? For God’s sake, give me a clue!”
“You know the word I mean. You used it when writing about Cowen”
“You mean, Cowen is the word?”
“No. What you called him. You could have called him something else.”
“A fucking ignorant loutish liar who hasn’t a fucking clue how to run a game of golf, let alone a country. And that’s just for starters.”
“You don’t think much of him then?”
“No. He’s a fucking cunt.”
I sighed and went back to reading my book.