On Saturday morning I go on a long dog walk with a bunch of people in the country. I’m at the back of the pack, discussing the finer points of my not-that-recent colonoscopy with someone who has undergone the same thing. At some point – I’m not sure when – I became the sort of person who gladly shares details of unpleasant medical procedures in the course of small talk. It’s nice to have a topic, but I don’t really want to be defined by my transverse colon. I’ve got so much else wrong with me.
“So yeah, anyway, all fine now,” I say. I want to change the subject to my bad shoulder, but everyone’s attention has been diverted by a dog getting stuck in a cattle grid.
After the walk, my wife packs our bag and I put it in the car. Some of the other house guests are staying to lunch, but we are taking our dog and our oldest son back to London. We say our goodbyes, get in the car and go.
“I’ve left my phone behind,” the oldest one says, about five miles down the road.
“Are you sure?” I say.
“Yeah,” he says. “I know exactly where I left it.”
“OK,” my wife says. “Let me find a place to turn round.” Eventually a layby of sufficient depth presents itself, and we head back the way we came.
“Be sure to make plenty of noise as you go in,” my wife tells the oldest one. “Because they’ll all be in the kitchen talking about us.”
“Really?” I say.
“They will have observed the five-minute rule,” she says. “But we’ve missed that window.”
I try to calculate how many years I’ve been living in blissful ignorance of this social convention. Twenty? Thirty?
“Right now they’ll be discussing how weird or awful we are,” my wife says. “I would be.”
All the way back, I think about the conversation taking place in the kitchen. If only I’d made more of an effort during our brief visit. Right now people might be saying, “Tim is so helpful and fun to be with!” instead of, “He took the last coffee pod this morning, and he’s got something wrong with his arse.” We pull into the drive.
“I’ll come in with you,” my wife says to the oldest one. “In case it’s embarrassing.”
“Maybe listen at the door first,” I say.
Alone in the car with the dog, I think about how little my wife cares about what people say about her, as long as she isn’t around to hear it. I, on the other hand, am already filling the gap since the five-minute grace period elapsed with unhealthy speculation. Is it possible I’ve spent my life being insufficiently paranoid? Two car doors open simultaneously.
“Was it embarrassing?” I say. “What were they saying?”
“Get over yourself,” my wife says.
That evening the oldest one and his friends go out to watch some fireworks. When they return several hours later, I am still watching TV. I do my best impersonation of someone who is friendly and accommodating – fun to be with, but also conscientious about not outstaying his welcome. Shortly after heading upstairs to bed, I think about going back down to retrieve my book, but then I realise I’ve missed the five-minute window.
One of the oldest one’s friends stays overnight, and to lunch. Just before midday, I make a start on the meal, indulge in some chat, and then creep upstairs to check my email. Five minutes later I hear my wife erupt into laughter downstairs. The oldest one and his friend laugh along. With me or at me, I can’t tell.
