New Girl and I were breakfasting on Wednesday. I was telling her that between Grumpy moving back into the haus last Tuesday and me moving out this Tuesday, we'd managed to keep things quite friendly - until Monday evening.
I was standing in the laundry, the louvred window of which faces the neighbours' yard. A couple of weeks ago I'd sent Grumpy an email explaining the various bits and pieces he needed to organise with the bank, and as I stood sorting out a load of washing he asked me summarise the info for him.
I began explaining the fortnightly payments he needed to make into his mortgage and my account. Then his face screwed up into an angry little look that I know and love so well, that to me says, "Must I tell you how to behave in every situation?" He accompanied the face with a dismissive wave and the instruction, "Keep your voice down; I don't want the neighbours knowing our business."
You will be pleased to know that at that point I elevated things to a whole new plane of maturity by telling him to "maldicion off" and, gentle reader, you may be astounded to learn that from there things deteriorated with exceptional rapidity into a high decibel slanging match.
New Girl digested this information and then said, "Because, of course, that he was more than happy to have the neighbours hear."