Goldfinger

It wasn't that long ago when Katrin came over for dinner, in early summer. We found it quite amusing when she observed, with a knowing nod, "Ah you don't have a TV ... you must have a very good relationship!"

So what did we do? In the spirit of high adventure (and believe me, for a household of two historians, that's saying a lot), we trotted out and got ourselves a tiny telly.

Since then, most evenings have inadvertently transformed into 'sofa events', with Ste having mastered the one-eye-on-screen, one-eye-on-newspaper routine. I harbour no such delusions about the limits of my own multi-tasking capacity and am a dedicated both-eyes-on-screen fan of Silent Witness, a sort of CSI series (not that I've ever watched CSI) about pathologists cracking murder cases with their creative interpretations of the charred/severed/often decomposing subjects. The sort of career I might have wanted if the sight of real blood and chunky vomit didn't make me faint.

Anyway, the point is I don't think this change in our lifestyle is necessarily bad. It's not like our minds switch off during those 2-3 hours of programming every night, certainly not! Take last evening, for example, when I made a most earth-shaking discovery during a commercial break:

I prodded the cuticles on my left hand and surveyed my skinny fingers. Should I go to the kitchen for a glass of apple juice, pop into the loo, or just wait this out? Suddenly, a 'wow' moment hit: hang on a minute, now check this out ... I have lean fingers ... and small nostrils. (Alicia fits lean finger into small nostril for verification). Then I turned to Ste who was seemingly engrossed in his combination act (newspaper-telly) on the opposite end of the sofa, but secretly curious about my unconcealed excitement. I was ready to take my theory to the next level.

Ste has thicker fingers and significantly larger nostrils than I do. I raised his left hand and when [his] index digit met [his] orifice, barring the expression of mild horror (or was it shock ...) on his face, it was another perfect fit, gorrrdarnit! We are born efficient gold-diggers! So to speak. No fat fingers getting stuck in button-noses ... or worse, scrawny ones clawing endlessly through cavernous nostrils.

Ste was far less impressed by the revelation, but by then the adverts were over and my moment of brilliance retreated, embarrassed, into the wings.