I’m in the bath soaking in Jo Malone having just had a last swim in the pool before dinner. Downstairs in the kitchen, time is measured out by the steady blade of a knife chopping, chopping, chopping, when Ahhhh, Ahhhh, Ahhhh, comes a cry, in exactly the same rhythm, each louder than the last.
'Aye cut myselve,' yells Natasha, the cook, through the floorboards as Zena the butler (I kid you not), both of whom are from Belaruse, rushes calmly to her aid. They speak to each other in that sneering way that makes you think they have their noses wrinkled because of a bad smell, biting off the end of their sentences, filtering their words through bared teeth.
I wait long enough for a normal sized person to have bled to death and then quashing my fear of blood, I do the decent thing, get out of the suds, wrap myself in a towel and open the door that leads from my bathroom straight down to the kitchen (obviously I'm sleeping in what was originally one of the servant’s rooms) and yell into the stairwell.
'Do you need any help?'
There’s a long silence.
'No,' says Zena curtly, in the same tone of voice I used to use to my mother-in-law when she was fussing and I wished she would get lost.
'Is there anything wrong?'
'Noa, everyzeeng ees fine,' says Zena.
'Yuess, somezeeng ees wrong, I cut my nail een haffe, right in zee meedel of preparing zee dinner,' wails Natasha.
'Do you need to go to hospital?'
'Noa, eet’s okay,' says Zena.
'Eet’s not okaye, I haff only haffe a nail!'
Tonight we’re having tempura with dipping sauce for dinner, I noticed on the menu Natasha keeps on the counter top… All very Sweeny Todd.
I once had a dinner party where I was using a mandolin to slice vegetables, sliced open my thumb, wrapped it in a towel, drove myself to the emergency, had it glued together, came back, rinsed the blood off the mandolin and went on cooking. We had 8 people coming. What was I meant to do. Get take out?
The chopping has resumed.
Let’s hope we don’t move on to whole fingers.
