Working my way through a translation on malnutrition in elderly patients I wander into the kitchen in the utterly vain hope of finding a box of cadbury roses in one of the cupboards. But of course, we don't stock that kind of trans fat sugar decadence. No cookies, not even old crumbs, we are so fucking healthy in this household.  I cut a slice of (organic) whole wheat bread and spread a thin layer of home made (low sugar) loganberry jam on it. That will have to do.

The world is a better place again. We are so good, this kitchen is almost holy. Sigh and bloody sigh.

Some days we have this conversation:

Me: When (or depending on mood: if) I die before you, do you think you'll have another relationship?

R: You're not dying, stop talking rubbish.

Me: Seriously, can you imagine living here with another woman?

R: Shut up and eat.

Me: Or maybe a man?

R: For crying out loud, would you stop this!

Me: I hate the thought of you being here all alone, watching tv all by yourself and there's the laundry and the cleaning and the shopping and ...

R: Come on, I don't watch tv and well, I can tell you one thing, when you're dead, there will be far less shopping and laundry.

Me: See, you admit it. I could die before you and then what? Will you look for another partner?

R: Maybe. Come on, eat. 

Me: So you will!

R: Alright then: what about you, will you get yourself another man if I die before you?

Me: No. Of course not. Never.

R: Want some more of this broccoli? No? I'll finish it then.

I finish my slice of bread, which, in fact, tastes quite delicious. Still, I would very much like some unobtrusive person to come into the room now with bowl of, say, chocolate ice cream.