All Wrapped Up

Poo twig? she mouths at me.

“And,” I continue with a wince, turning round to rest my hot forehead on the wall, “don’t you think it’s strange that an entire romantic tradition is based around a parasitic plant that takes nutrients from another? What does that say about love, do you think?”

Oh my God. I can’t stop talking.

I’m going to just keep talking, and when the heat from my cheeks causes the whole house to explode into flames and crumble around me, I’ll be there: still inexplicably yabbering about parasites.

Frankly, I’ve read a lot of romantic speeches in my life, and absolutely none of them started with faeces.

“Although,” I add in a desperate, horrified rush, “apparently mistletoe actually comes from a Norse legend and the white berries are—”

“Stop, Harriet,” Nick laughs. “I believe it’s you. No further evidence is necessary. Where on earth are you calling from?”

“England. My living room.”

I’m pretty much part of the wall now, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“Very literal.” He laughs again. There’s a crispy chomping sound. “I’m in the kitchen, eating cereal for lunch because apparently I don’t know how to fend for myself.” There’s the crunchy sound of a cornflake box being shaken. “So … is there a problem?”

I blink, smacking my head gently on the wall. “Umm, sorry?”

“You called me.” A second shake. “Is something wrong?”

Oh my God. This is getting worse by the minute. Apparently my call is so unwelcome and so unexpected it’s actually a sign that the universe has gone awry.

“No-o-o. I just …” I clear my throat. “I wanted to say hello, that’s all. Thomas Edison chose it as the word to use when greeting people on the phone. So … hello.”