Between that and his DebSoc and his Weekly Whingers Anonymous Group he's never in. I keep forgetting that he's out. And then when he returns I forget that he's come back in, and I totter to the kitchen to put the kettle on. I never put the kettle on! For the past millenium I've always shouted through to Geoffrey to do it, quick as he likes. I've even made my own tea, on occasion, due to this ghastly, new-fangled and disruptive routine.
It's not only that. When he returns - and for days after - he insists on telling me All About It. A blow-by-blow account of who brought the best biscuits, who said what, and endless theories about why they might have done so.
I don't mind the debating and the whingeing but mindfulness sounds like the biggest pile of -
'I asked you to ping the finger cymbals after twenty minutes.'
'It's only been five, Geoffrey.'
'Oh. It must just feel like twenty I suppose.'
He's learning to meditate.
Me, I prefer to stare blankly out of the living-room window, and smoke my pipe. Preferably after a fry-up, four opium tabloids, and two schooners of best Madeira.
Geoffrey used to do the same, but he's fallen under the spell of Val Nark and her organic vegan lifestyle.
I doubt it will last.
Next Saturday at DebSoc, by the way, Val is debating naturopathy with the Ghastly Wilson. Geoffrey's going along, of course, and he's so keen to impress his new so-called friends that he's baking his own biscuits and manning the 'Jackson' tea urn.
More about that, later....