We're at a private viewing of Invictus at the Warner Bros Cinema round the corner from Pedantic. There's an open bar so naturally we pedants turn up early to try and pack in a couple of drinks before the screening. The lucky Chiefs got to go to the première, but we Indians have to make do without the pleasure of seeing Clint & Co in the flesh. Still, with a glass of reasonable red wine in my hand, I'm certainly not complaining.
Contracts isn't complaining either. He's talking about having worked late the night before until 11pm, and having eaten his supper at the kitchen table while his laptop was open. That's a normal night for me lately, though my laptop might well be playing an American cop drama with minuscule Japanese subtitles across the bottom, and the kitchen table will also be littered with scraps of paper, backboards, paints, glue, scalpels and needles and thread - once love goes out the window, bookbinding comes sneaking back in through the door. I'm as likely to be cleaning my paintbrush in vodka as drinking it. Or, let's be absolutely honest, possibly both.
I mention that my kids had been begging me to please, please, find a replacement man fast, as the unusual amount of attention I was lavishing on them was proving unwelcome. I picked up ten bags of clothes from my daughter's bedroom on Saturday afternoon, having nothing better to do. It was not appreciated. I need a distraction. Maybe I should get a dog, I wonder aloud, not for the fifty-fourth time.
No, Cats, said Contracts, a serious, professorial colleague who joins me in the upper age echelons of the company. I've had cats from time to time and they don't take much looking after.
Yes, but at least you can go away and leave your kids for a couple of days and they don't pee on the floor. I answered, before falling into a thoughtful silence, because, frankly, after picking up ten bags of clothing, who can be sure?
Hens then, Contracts suggested. (He's a man of few, and succinct, words).
Hens? God no! I am reminded of my friend Gay who told me that she could just see me living in the country keeping hens. I was not flattered. Nor did she mean me to be.
No, my sister keeps hens and they are remarkably friendly creatures.
I'm unconvinced.
Really, they come into the house and you can pet them.
That's all I ruddy need to ensure I remain totally celibate for the rest of my life, standing in the kitchen with chicken shit everywhere, drinking muddy coloured vodka from a jam jar with a paint brush in it, stroking a hen under one arm.
And, just think, adds young Reception, between glugs of lager, you could also have fresh eggs.
I do think. For a while. Before I formulate the next sentence. I have now had two glasses of wine. I pick my words very carefully, aware that I'm treading dangerously on double entendre territory.
Erm, but don't you need to have a rooster to get eggs? I ask, delicately - I mean, despite the fact that I've written most of a farming book, I've forgotten how you get hens to lay.
I look questioningly at Contracts.
Oh yes, definitely, he says.
And I can see it coming, but not in time....
You have to have a cock.
