The other day I arrived back from a trip abroad to find the house in its usual state of working order. The boiler had burst and there was no hot water. Katalin, the Hungarian housekeeper, claimed she had contracted frostbite in her big toe and was hopping around like a one-legged woman, complaining about the uncivilised London weather.
But, I protested, in Budapest the temperature was at least ten degrees lower than that in southern England. Yes, she replied, but in Hungary even the cleaning ladies wore fur to keep them warm. This conjured up ideas of mink toe-warmers and goodness knows what else. In lieu of my possessing any of these exotic accoutrements, I suggested we have some wine.
Thus we were both drinking Pino Grigio in the sitting-room, Katalin with her toe in the air, when this idyll was interrupted by a series of loud noises.
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