"Try one of these", urged the smooth-voiced sales assistant. I obediently popped one into my mouth as I continued to make polite conversation with the corporate hosts at the Harvey Nichols Christmas event (less than ninety days to go). "It's a chocolate-covered ant".
Well, fuck. I'm quite bold in comparison, say, to a person who can't even face down a squid, but even I draw the line somewhere.
Seems I draw the line beyond ants: it had already been munched and gone down. Gulp some wine. Think about something else.
"Welcome to Orange Answerphone. You have *three* new messages".
The number is always a strange computer-voice inserted into the dulcet tones of the girl I imagine is called Margaret. (No, don't ask me why. I have no idea).
The messages all came within five minutes of one another, and were from three unconnected people. Sarah Wilson. Jeremy Wilson. Dave Wilson. What are the chances of that?
Today, rainy, on the Leicester ring-road, filling up at a Shell garage. Kate McCann is at the pump opposite. She looks tired. I smile, she smiles back. A man leaps out of his cab at the HGV pumps, runs up to her. Pushes his mobile phone in her face and takes a photo. Punches the air triumphantly as he goes back to his lorry.
I feel disconnected from the world, a lot of the time.
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