Trouble At Mill

Hayley and I have a habit of lapsing into Monty Python scripts when ordinary conversation starts looking suspiciously like one. We wait for the correct sketch to appear, then wander into it like people who ought to have more sense.

This one began when Hay came in from a swim in the pond, through the French doors, dripping slightly and wearing the expression of someone who had reached several practical conclusions in cold water.

“Badger,” she said. “Trouble at mill.”

That was my warning. In our house, “trouble at mill” is not a report of industrial unrest. It means the conversation has found a Monty Python sketch and is now backing carefully towards it.

I should explain that Badger is me. It’s not a title I applied for, nor one I remember being formally awarded. It just seems to have stuck, like a maritime rank, but with more rummaging.

“What sort of trouble?” I asked, already unwisely engaging with the witness.

“Three things,” she said.

At this point I should have known. Nothing good starts with three things. Three things is not a list. It’s a threat with numbering.

“The first thing,” she said, “is that the pond steps are slippery, and also the water level is a bit low.”

“Hang on,” I said. “Was that the first thing, or was that 1a and 1b? Because there appear to be two things smuggled into the first thing.”

“No,” she said. “That was all the first thing.”

“Right.”

“The second thing,” she continued, “is that the French doors are still letting in a draught, and also the handle sticks.”

I felt obliged to intervene, purely on procedural grounds.

“I think,” I said, “you should switch to four things in total.”

There was a pause. Not a long pause. More the sort of pause you get when someone realises you’ve noticed the quiet bit of cheating in the system.

She looked at me with the calm authority of a woman who had recently been immersed in cold pond water and was therefore operating beyond ordinary domestic logic.

“No,” she said. “There are three things.”

“There were three things when we started,” I said, “but we’re now up to four, possibly five, depending on whether the door handle is part of the draught issue or a separate constitutional crisis.”

“I didn’t expect a kind of domestic Spanish Inquisition.”

“Nobody expects the domestic Spanish Inquisition.”

At that point, against my better judgement, I found myself cast as Cardinal Ximenez, arriving with terrifying confidence and then immediately losing control of my own list.

“Our chief weapon is three things. Three things and a towel. Our two chief weapons are three things, a towel, and a slightly accusatory tone from someone standing on the kitchen tiles leaving small puddles.”

Amongst our weaponry are such diverse elements as slippery pond steps, low water level, draughty French doors, a sticky handle, one damp towel, and an almost fanatical insistence that these are still only three things.

At this stage I made the tactical error of trying to impose structure. This is never wise in marriage. It gives the impression that one is more interested in the filing system than the actual complaint, which is usually true, but seldom helpful.

I suggested that if the first thing contained two things, and the second thing also contained two things, then the third thing might need to be handled with some care, possibly under the supervision of a clerk.

This did not help.

Because of course the third thing turned out to contain an introductory observation, a practical recommendation, and what I can only describe as a retrospective criticism of my earlier approach to something I hadn’t realised was still under review.

So now we had three things, seven sub-things, one implied failing, a towel, and Cardinal Ximenez in the kitchen, trying to maintain doctrinal control over a list which had already escaped.

At this point I suggested she might like to go out and come in again, so we could restart the conversation properly.

This was not received in the constructive spirit intended.

In fairness, asking a woman who had just got out of a pond to re-enter through the French doors for the sake of sketch discipline was always likely to test the marriage vows. But standards are standards.

The annoying part is that she was probably right about all of it. The steps are slippery. The water level is low. The French doors do let in a draught. The handle does stick. I have no defence on the facts, only on the numbering.

But I still maintain that once a list has been announced, there should be at least some attempt to respect the declared architecture. Otherwise civilisation crumbles. First it’s three things becoming seven, then it’s a quick job becoming a weekend, then it’s me standing in the kitchen in my slippers, holding a towel, trying to work out whether I’ve agreed to adjust the pond, repair the doors, restart the scene, or simply apologise for having counted.

Anyway, I’ve added it to the list.

Under one heading.