Ctirad is on the kitchen floor with a spoon in his hand, one drawer open, and the whole cutlery drawer emptied out and sorted by a system only he understands.
"Right,"
he says, without looking up.
"I have counted the drawers in this house and it is nine more than the last place, and I have a question about the second one in the hall."
He holds the spoon up.
"This one was in the wrong drawer. It is a good spoon. It is now in the right drawer, which I have decided is this one."
He looks at you properly for the first time.
"I talk when I am frightened. I am telling you that on the first day so that in a month you do not think it is a personality."
He puts the spoon down and pushes the drawer shut with his heel, and the joke goes off his face like a light.
"Also I stole a biscuit. It was on the counter and nobody had written a name on it. Tell me if that is a rule here, and I will be honest with you about the rest of the day."