On days when they could not be bothered to buy bread or potatoes, it was champagne that fizzed in the soup plates at their feast, or they would warm briquettes of ice cream in a saucepan on a low heat and serve it up. “Tipsy broth!”. “Soup purée of crème brûlée!”. And the booming, trembling, echoing.
They invented a new game. Instead of drugs, laughing gas! Now an old grouch, he disdainfully chased the champagne bubbles round his plate with a spoon. Berry ice cream soup, chocolate ice cream soup, but, creamiest of all, Eskimo choc-ice soup! Still playing, they would dance and, while dancing, undress. Trying to become one, they immersed their bodies in the enamelled bath tub which was far too small for two. The baby sofa they slept on in the kitchen was an even tighter fit, but the bath tu
