I have taken to eating bananas in the bathroom. It is a long-ish cure for a verruca, but the lady at the hospital (not an 'old wife') a qualified podiatrist, said to cut a square of pith and bandage it to the offending wart. There are others, but this one is the 'queen'�; her word, not mine.

So for weeks now, I've been sitting on the toilet scoffing bananas for this fruity treatment.

My husband objects, but can't find the words. I know this of course; as you do, when your life has swirled inextricably into another's. The result is rarely some new, superior unit - just a tangle of intimate nastiness, tar and feathers, and you acquire this knowledge; the inner scowl, the sub-agenda.

Eventually he tries anyway. 'Must you?'� feet shifting, going nowhere.

Let him. The 'queen'� is looking better, and I enjoy my banana, sitting there, doing the crossword, doing the business. I use the nail scissors to cut the pith.

Suddenly: 'It's fuckin' DISGUSTING!'� and I can see this big vein throbbing on the side of his neck.

It's unlikely anything could've stopped me once it caught my eye. I rammed the scissors home.

He stood there, a lop-sided Frankenstein; and although he had his back turned, the tar and feathers in me knew that the expression on his face was shock.

Then, the silly bastard pulled the scissors out.

I don't suppose they'll let me eat bananas in the toilet in my new home.

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