Tilly has been watching a television show called Castle this afternoon. It stars Nathan Fillion (Captain Mal from Firefly) which should be a recommendation. Sadly it is not my cup of tea. It reminds me rather of Murder She Wrote with Nathan as a younger, more square jawed Angela Lansbury.
As she watches, I have flitted in and out doing a few jobs. At one point she freezes the screen, turns to me and says in tones of mild astonishment:
‘This man has just sold his finger to a serial killer for $5000.’
To which I reply: ‘Oh. That’s unusual.’
Tilly: ‘Yes, but to be fair, he didn’t know he was a serial killer.’
Me: ‘That’s a relief.’ (Although I suspect the belatedly finding out about the serial killer thing is not such a relief for him).
Tilly: ‘For $5000!’
Me: ‘Well, maybe he had a gas bill to pay.’
Tilly: ‘$5000 isn’t a lot for a finger.’
Me: ‘Needs must when the devil drives.’
Me: ‘Maybe it was only his little finger. There’s probably a sliding scale.’
Tilly: ‘Yes! It was his pinky finger, but I think $5000 is just not enough.’
Me: ‘OK then.’ (I haven’t really had time to think about how much money I’d want for my pinkie finger. It’s all a bit sudden).
Tilly: ‘My pinky finger is my favourite finger. I’d want way more than that. It’s the best finger of all.’
I exit the room before she starts demanding I provide an Antiques Roadshow style on the spot evaluation of my digits.