Why is it that for the two minutes of the day you can’t speak, you find more to say than during the entire rest of the day? I’m in the habit of wandering round the house whilst brushing my teeth rather than standing still over the sink as I have been led to believe is the norm. Doing so this morning, I headed to the bathroom only to realise that there was someone in there, so stood in the kitchen and waited for them to come out before I could spit my toothpaste out. During the two minutes (although it felt like an hour) that I was waiting, my brain went into overdrive. I remembered that I wanted to ask my Dad the name of the place we went on holiday one year. And then to offer to put out the washing. And to tell him about something that had happened to someone we know recently, and point out the large spider in the corner of the room (“we never get spiders in the house” he regularly claims). As all these thoughts rushed around my mind with no way to express them, my dad pottered off into the garden to hang the washing out and the bathroom became free. Looking up from the sink as I rinsed my mouth out I realised that I could no longer remember half the things I wanted to say, typical now that I could, and I noticed that the spider in the kitchen had disappeared, as if his aim in being there had been to taunt me that I couldn’t prove my dad wrong about his no spiders in the house theory. My brain, having had it’s most active two minutes of the day, came up with little more for me to say for the rest of the day, and so I reverted to my usual comments about the weather etc etc. Maybe it’s something they put in the toothpaste?