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"I'm not watching rugby again." Sidorovna settled a little more comfortably against the sofa. Nightingale watched her with half an eye, most of his attention still devoted to deciphering the remote. It was bizarre how he always forgot how it worked.
"Molly has banned the Great British Bake Off," he said mildly. "She doesn't want us getting any more ideas, I think."
Sidorovna sipped her gin and brandy cocktail and waved an imperious hand. "Anything but rugby."
"It's really an interesting game if you just learn the rules—"
Sidorovna made a grab for the remote and Nightingale pulled it out of reach. "All right, all right." He finally located the 'on' button and clicked desultorily through a few channels. They skipped through the usual comedies and dramas—their tastes in fiction never agreed.
They were showing Murphy's War on Sky. Nightingale glanced at Sidorovna and she shook her head. Good. He wasn't interested in war movies, tonight or any night.
They finally settled on Antiques Roadshow as the least objectionable program possible. Nightingale leaned back and sipped his orange juice. He hadn't had a strong drink since Sidorovna joined the household, and he envied her now.
"Do you want some?" Sidorovna offered her glass. "You keep looking at it."
"I'm keeping a clear head, I'm afraid." Nightingale redirected his attention to the telly. "That can't be worth two hundred pounds, can it?"
The presenter was turning over a little transistor radio in her hands, exclaiming over its condition.
"I bought one just like that, new," muttered Nightingale. "It might be in the attic still."
Sidorovna laughed. "Everything old is valuable, if it's well-preserved."
"Does that include us?" asked Nightingale.
Sidorovna's lips curved, and she finished her drink. "We're not old, Thomas. But if we cleaned out your attic and my shed, we could probably collect a few thousand pounds."
Nightingale had listened to rugby on that radio, a decade out of the war and still unable to be in a large crowd without his hands shaking. It probably still worked, if he could find it. It could probably still pick up a signal.
On the screen, another presenter carefully explained to a young woman that her grandmother's rug was completely worthless.
"It's an ugly thing anyway," said Sidorovna.
"Valuable for the memories," suggested Nightingale.
"Only old people talk in such clichés," said Sidorovna. She seemed about to say something else, perhaps more cutting, but she swallowed it. "I need another drink."
Nightingale mixed her another, and added a little brandy to his orange juice. You had to live a little, every once in a while.
"I owned that dress!" said Sidorovna, outraged. "Thirty pounds? Is that all?"
"Perhaps you're not the best judge of taste." Nightingale handed over the drink.
"It'll be fashionable again someday," said Sidorovna acerbically. "I can wait."
They drank and watched as judgment was passed over the artifacts from their youth. It was a privilege, Nightingale decided, to live long enough to be outraged when the judgment was wrong.