Forgot to mention earlier. Mr WithaY brought a bag of sperm whale's teeth home with him. Nice.
Much of yesterday was spent scrubbing them in the garden (by him, not me), and preparing various evil solutions of soda and water to soak them in.
Why? You may well ask.
I have. If I get an answer, I'll be sure to share it.
The unfortunate whale was washed up (dead) onto the beach where he had to go and visit on Friday, so he got permission to extract some of the teeth to bring home.
They'll look lovely on the kitchen dresser.
Or maybe he'll put them on the wall, next to the fucking crossbow.
When he told me he was going to go and chisel the teeth out of a huge dead sea mammal I nodded, my natural horror and disbelief numbed from 20 years of living with a modern Davy Crockett.
At work on Thursday I told a colleague of Mr WithaY's plans, and said "I hope he took his overalls with him."
That night, a message on the answerphone informed me that Mr WithaY had had to go and buy a new pair of trousers to wear to his meeting because the only ones he'd taken were now covered in whale juice.
You couldn't make it up.
I wish I could. I so do.