“What kind of knife is it?” I asked.
“The knife with the serrated edge, the one on the draining-board,” she said in a surprised tone, then sat in silence for a while, her mouth half open.
“A bread knife?”
“Yes.” She smiled.
“Go on.”
“I cut the pack of ice cream in half. I take one half and a spoon to the sofa in front of the TV. Oprah Winfrey. Dr Phil is sitting in the audience. She asks him a question and he holds up his index finger. There’s a piece of red thread tied around it, and he’s just about to tell us why when Kasper starts yelling. I know he doesn’t want anything, he’s just trying to spite me. He yells because he knows it will upset me. I won’t tolerate bad behaviour in my house.”
“What is he yelling?”
“He knows I want to hear what Dr Phil says. He knows I enjoy Oprah; that’s why he’s yelling.”
“And what is he yelling right now?”
“There are two closed doors between us,” she goes on. “But I can hear him yelling.”
“What is he saying?”
“Horrible words. He’s yelling cunt, cunt, cunt
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