B woke up about half an hour ago and has dragged me downstairs so that she can raid the fridge. To her delight, the fridge is (or rather was) full of yogurt, so she has had about fifteen pots of it last night and this morning.

The yogurt itself comes from one of the neighbours, whose partner works delivering dairy goods and has passed on to us the stuff that has got damaged in transit but is still perfectly edible. Over the last few weeks there has been a noticeable decrease in yogurt supplies, and a noticeable increase in long angst-ridden conversations with said neighbour.

Now the yogurt is back. It is odd to realise that one can make interesting deductions about the neighbours’ sex lives from inspecting the contents of one’s own fridge.