World Culture's flavour tends to spoil a little in the persistent rain and Saturday afternoon brought a downpour, so after a late breakfast we went back to bed to read the papers. I snuggled up to him and proceeded to read his newspaper over the top of my book (because the grass is always greener) feeling smug and pleasantly bourgeoisie (I reckon it was the pancakes). He started to laugh. "How delightfully middle-class! Perhaps later we should go to that little ethnic festival, darling!" he trilled, in an awful approximation of a plummy southsider. "I hear they have some brown chaps with drums!"
