(This entire conversation was in baby-asleep-trailer-living-whispers. M being aurally challenged by too many years of rock made it interesting.) He walked into the study last night and motioned vaguely behind him, in the direction of the bathroom.
“So I just slipped a poo over the edge…”
I gaped. “You just slipped a POO over the EDGE?? A poo? WHY?”
“No! Not a POO. A boob! A BOOB!”
“You just slipped your boob over the edge? Your man-boob? What edge?”
“NO! What. Was. It. Like. Sticking. Your. Boob. Over. The. EDGE.”
Finally it clicked. He was not talking about the carnal relations I had not had with the U2 guitar-whizz. No. Earlier I had come out of the bedroom. Small Z’s first night in the cot. I had commented that I’d managed to feed her while she was still in it by sticking my boob over the edge. Too bad that it had been about an hour before, an aeon in Trailer night time, and he was talking like it had happened a minute ago.
“It was fine!”
“Shut up now.”
“No. You shut up.”