Where's the superficial? I was, and therefore am, dim, gloomy, a drag, unfashionable, unfanciable and awkward. This doesn't seem like superficial to me. These aren't flesh wounds. These are life-threatening thrusts into the internal organs.
'Oh, right,' I say. 'I'm not very keen on dogs.'
None of them say anything for a while; there's not much they can say, really, about my lack of enthusiasm for dogs.
'Is that size of flat, or childhood fear, or the smell, or ...?' asks Clara, very sweetly.
'I dunno. I'm just ...' I shrug …
[...] I have a sudden panic when I'm in there. The other coats on the bed are expensive, and for a moment I entertain the idea of going through the pockets and then doing a runner.
I'm not making any of this up. This is how she talks, as if nobody has ever had a conversation about this in the history of the world.
HIM: Good. So how shall we leave it then?
ME: We won't leave it, Ian. Or at least, I won't. I'd change your phone number, if I were you. I'd change your address. One day soon you'll look back on one visit to the house and ten phone calls a night as a golden age. Watch your step, boy. [_Slams recei…
