What was that thing people used to say about familiarity and contempt?
How many times would you say you’ve seen The Muppet Show?” I ask my husband as we set out on our daily walk. We are yet to decide whether it’s Route 1 (examining the melee outside Five Guys in a vaguely censorious fashion) or Route 2 (navigating the confusing one-way signage in the market). “I don’t know,” he says. “Not that often. Why?” “Because you must have hummed the theme tune daily for 26 years,” I say, molars clenched. “You’re humming it now. You don’t even realise you’re doing it.” It occasionally varies: sometimes he hums a French children’s TV programme theme tune; sometimes the Human League’s Don’t You Want Me. Those three. Twenty-six years.
If you haven’t had a conversation about something like this recently, you’re probably living on your own. Actually, if I were on my own, I would have picked a fight with myself by now. I have innumerable annoying habits: putting my shoes on chairs and my mugs on every surface, failing to dry the high-maintenance cast iron pans, or spending £17 in Marks & Spencer with no meals to show for it.
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