You scrape the back of my leg with your toenail. “Ouch,” I say.

There’s a cardboard cutout of David Milliband on the floor. He’s bent at the knee, as though he were begging us for mercy. There’s a pair of tights across his brow, and an empty bottle of shiraz beside him. The contents are mostly soaked into the six-week old carpet. I should be annoyed.

“He was always the better brother,” you say, “I wish he’d won.” I pinch your ear in agreement.

The window is slightly open. A bee arrives. I scrape the back of your leg with my toenail. “Ouch”, you say.

The bee comes to rest on the bedside table. It gives me a sad, worried look.