I am not amused. I am, however, not bothered.
Harvey and Winnie have, in recent weeks, formed what one is obliged to call a band. There are no instruments. There is no rehearsal. Their entire artistic output is a single piece, performed as needed.
The piece concerns the hoover. It has lyrics, of a sort. Winnie performs the vocal — loudly, and with considerable conviction. Harvey provides what one might call the “rhythm section,” in that he occasionally also does it, but quietly, and from a different room, where he believes himself to be unobserved.
The Woman runs the hoover on Tuesdays. The band performs every Tuesday. They have, by now, refined the work to a true ensemble standard, by which I mean it is the same every time.
I lie beneath the dining table throughout. I do not move. I do not join in. I am not a heckler — though I do, occasionally, sigh in a way that lands on the downbeat. The youth take this as encouragement. It is not encouragement. It is endurance.
Still, I find that I do not mind. The young must do what they will do. Tuesdays are, despite everything, perfectly tolerable. Mmh.