It’s been a couple of weeks, but I got invited back. Either Rosie was sick of the kitchen, or my cooking must have been OK the first time round.

Sunday evening. Jamaican goat curry—an ode to past adventures. The scotch bonnets were generous. Perhaps too generous. Kev was blowing a gasket, the way men do when they don’t want to admit the heat was too much. Rosie winced with every mouthful but said nothing and smiled as she always does—a picture of dignified suffering.

It wasn’t planned. I should have de-seeded the scotch bonnets—I didn’t, and we all suffered in different shades of silence.

Kev eats quickly. He has a decent head of hair—it’s mostly all I saw.

Rosie is the conversationalist. She likes books, which immediately puts her in good standing. We covered varied ground—the kind of Sunday evening conversation that wanders without agenda and lands somewhere unexpected.

Beer for starters, then wine. Kev prides himself on having a decent cellar—mainly reds—and mainly stuff that falls off the back of the truck. He’s not wrong about that.

Rosie made gluten-free flatbread. Delicious—soft, warm, the perfect foil for the curry; I couldn’t get enough of it. Kev didn’t know what “gluten-free” was—I could have told him it was a horse that ran in Sydney. It didn’t stop him from having his three.

Then the golf.

Kev has developed an unhealthy habit of talking up his own game. At length. With conviction. I’ve played with Kev. He couldn’t hit a barn door from the inside. I said nothing. Some battles aren’t worth fighting over a good red. Rosie nodded, as she does. I knew she shared my scepticism.

They’re very good to me. And I appreciate that. Kev packed me a container to go. He butchered the raita and yogurt, but who cares; I won’t have any taste till Wednesday.

The perfectly mismatched couple. Still perfectly mismatched.

Till next time.

Nick

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a different sober

Sunday with Rosie and Kev