‘Somebody loves me,’ said my husband, waving a copy of The Spectator above his head as though pursued by wasps.
‘Don’t be silly, darling,’ I said, refusing to feed his appetite for vicarious fame. A kindly reader had written, wondering if he was well, since I hadn’t mentioned him for a couple of weeks. He was more than well; he was well and truly infuriating, nursing his whisky and occasionally saying ‘Fine wines’, before falling silent until another pair of words spilt out, such as ‘Rare earths’, or ‘French cheeses’.
These were his quibbles after I’d explained that some nouns in English are uncountable. Much food is uncountable: bread, butter, toast. A Spaniard asks for tostadas; we ask for two pieces of toast. Why Eliot wrote of ‘the taking of a toast and tea’ I don’t know.
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