The Boyfriend and I popped into the Honey house. We had a bottle of Baileys from Dublin for Mr Honey that had to be delivered. Mr Honey loves Baileys, he thinks it’s candy, but unless Mrs Honey is watching him carefully, he’ll finish the whole bottle.
Normally when we get to The Honeys, it’s just a quick knock on the door, and then we walk in. Doors are rarely locked in Le Petit Village, except mine, mine is double bolted, best to keep out the Nazi soldier ghost zombies. But when we opened the door we heard some pretty loud voices shouting back and forth.
I don’t know about you, but sometimes I think foreign languages can sound a little scary. Not all the time, just when spoken loudly. As soon as the decibel level of a foreign language is raised, I want to duck for cover because it sounds like someone is pissed off and I best be getting out of the way. Years ago I had a Romanian boyfriend, and every time he spoke on the phone to his mother I thought they were having an argument. Nope, just their normal weekly chat, probably talking about sunshine and rainbows, but in Romanian, sunshine and rainbows can sound like death and destruction.
Hearing the shouting, we quickly stepped back and quietly closed the door. The Boyfriend and I looked at each other, not too sure what to do. He knocked again louder. No response. The Boyfriend searched for the doorbell, and used it for the first time. Mrs Honey answered the door laughing and shaking her head. We walked into the kitchen and there was Mr Honey still shouting and waving his arms around like a lunatic. Thinking that something was terribly wrong at the Honey house, I asked The Boyfriend what Mr Honey was going on about. Mr and Mrs Honey were having a very heated argument about multiplication. What???
This is what happens when children leave the nest and parents don’t have anything to do to occupy themselves. They argue about multiplication.
You see, when multiplying amounts with a zero on the end, Mrs Honey likes to do the whole thing like; 600 x 10, but Mr Honey likes to do it like; 6 x 1 and then add the zeros on after.
Mr Honey was leaning over me with a pink post it and a pen frantically writing multiplication problems desperately willing me to understand and support his argument that the way he does it was easier.
This is what the shouting was about.
We gave him the bottle of Baileys and the multiplication was forgotten. But then somehow, the subject moved to a story about some old French serial killer, hundreds of years ago, who had like 20 wives that he killed. And after he killed them, would chop them up and put them in the oven. Mr Honey informed me that he needed a bigger oven.
“Would you like some champagne?” Mrs Honey asked.