and we’re trying to talk to other people, but thanks to you it went off the rails, it ended in a scene, and you might know what’s in your own head, but those around you have no idea.
Is that a big problem?
Yes, I think it is.
But it did happen. The cyclist actually hit the car and I drove over his arm.
Right.
His arm was a bit flat afterwards.
OK, good night.
Good night.
What on earth are you up to?
I’m making breakfast.
It looks more like dinner.
But it’s breakfast.
You’re going to have dinner for breakfast?
No. I’m having breakfast.
But it looks like dinner.
Now you’re beginning to grate, Nina.
What?
You won’t like me saying so and I would like you to observe that I am not raising my voice or straining it when I say this, but if an unbiased outsider had been listening to what you just said I would not have blamed them for thinking you were a very conventional and boring person.
Are you saying I’m a boring person?
I feel uncomfortable about having to justify myself in this way. We’re on holiday. We have no plans. When I woke up I lay in bed, happily thinking about the theatre, and then I got hungry and now here I am, making Three Fishes with Three-Herb Salsa, because I’m keen to see what it tastes like. What time of the day it might be and the conventions regarding what it is usual to eat for breakfast are of no interest to me.
You don’t think it is off-putting that Nigella is in the process of putting food into her mouth in this picture?
No.
So Nigella is not boring?
I don’t know.
But what do you think?
I don’t think she’s boring.
I’m not boring, either.
Of course not.
But you just said I was.
What I said was that you could easily be mistaken for a boring person.
Because I think it’s strange to have dinner for breakfast?
Yes.
Whereas you are an interesting person?
I didn’t say that.
But I think you believe that.
I may be a little more open than you. A little more boundless. Maybe.
Maybe I don’t think there’s any point in being boundless.
Perhaps you’re right.
Exactly.
Let’s leave it like that then.
Yes.
Would you like to try some?
No.
Later?
Maybe.
For dinner?
Possibly.
Did you know that there are actually two towns?
Er… no.
That’s what Bader just told me.
Did he now?
Garmisch was originally one town and Partenkirchen another.
Really?
And then they were merged before the Winter Olympics in 1936.
I see.
But the locals were against it.
OK.
Hitler just decided.
Hitler would.
And today many tourists call the town just Garmisch, but it’s unfortunate because that annoys those living in Partenkirchen, according to Bader.
And which bit are we in now?
Partenkirchen.
So Bader is annoyed?
Must be a little.
Did you console him?
At least I spoke with a calm, warm voice.
Good. But as long as we call it Mixing Part Churches we elegantly avoid the whole problem.
I think you should stop saying that.
I will not.
This is about identity and self-respect. You don’t mock that.
I do.
What if the Germans called Oslo some stupid name?
They’re welcome to. Sometimes I feel like doing the same myself.
I’ll have to make a note of that by the way. Have you got any suggestions?
No.
Have you got a pen?
No.
Telemann?
Yes.
Are you aware that whenever you smoke a fag you shorten your life by eleven minutes?
I wasn’t, no.
But that’s the truth of the matter.
OK.
What do you think when you hear that?
I don’t know. Eleven minutes is not the end of the world.
No, but if you add all the cigarettes you’ve smoked it amounts to months and years.
You can’t think like that.
Can’t you?
No. A pack of ten makes a hundred and eleven minutes. That corresponds to quite a long film or, for example, one of the short performances we often put on in the Malersal in the National Theatre.
What do you mean?
There are many films and plays that are not worth seeing, so you can say that if I begin to skip the ones I know won’t