Things have been a bit hectic of late, I’ve had all sorts of irritating work commitments (I hate work) at home and abroad and there was Christmas, and the new year (how in the world does anyone have time to change the year?), and I was going to build a kitchen and then didn’t, and then move house, and haven’t, and also I really need to sort out my sock drawer, and so what has mostly been happening is my girlfriend has been booking tables for four in newly opened restaurants for her and me and a couple of her friends, and then we get in a cab and on the way there I ask her, three or four times, where we’re going. And she tells me. And I ask her what sort of a place it is, and she tells me. And then we chat about other stuff for five minutes. And then I ask her again. So when we walked into Trishna I said, “I thought you said we were going to an Indian restaurant.”

“It is Indian.”

I looked around at the bleak, cold room. The hard edges, the grey walls, the pale floor. I inhaled deeply and smelt nothing.

“Really?”

“Yes. We talked about it in the car. It’s Elizabeth Hurley’s favourite Indian.”

“I thought that was Arun Nayar.”

“You made that joke in the car.”

“Oh.”

“And also last Wednesday when you read about it in the paper.”

“Yes, well, good material doesn’t write itself, you know. A joke like that wants more than just a couple of outings.”

“And I’m sure it’ll get them, darling. Shall we sit down?”

We did. In a cold, hard corner, with a stiff breeze knifing down my neck so that I kept my scarf on until well after my second drink.

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