'Yeah, yeah, I know. But say I hadn't seen it and I said to you, "I haven't seen Reservoir Dogs yet" , what would you think?'

'I'd think, you're a sick man. And I'd feel sorry for you.'

'No, but would you think, from that one sentence, that I was going to see it?'

'I'd hope you were, yeah, otherwise I would have to say the you're not a friend of mine.'

'No, but—'

'I'm sorry, Rob, but I'm struggling here. I don't understand any part of this conversation. You're asking me what I'd think if you told me that you hadn't seen a film that you've seen. What am I supposed to say?'

'Just listen to me. If I said to you—'

—'"I haven't seen Reservoir Dogs yet," yeah, yeah, I hear you—'

'Would you ... would you get the impression that I wanted to see it?'

Well ... you couldn't have been desperate, otherwise you'd have already gone.'

'Exactly. We went first night, didn't we?'

'But the word "yet" ... yeah, I'd get the impression that you wanted to see it. Otherwise you'd say you didn't fancy it much.'

'But in your opinion, would I definitely go?'

'How did you know Alison?'

'I was her first boyfriend.'

There's a silence, and for a moment I worry that for the last twenty years I have been held responsible in the Ashworth house for some sort of sexual crime I did not commit.

'She married her first boyfriend. Kevin. She's Alison Bannister.'

[...]

'What did you say your name was'

'Rob. Bobby. Bob. Robert. Robert Zimmerman.' Fucking hell.

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 receiver down]

[...]

Oh well.

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.

[...] 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.

'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 hopelessly, 'you know, not very keen.'

They smile politely.

As it turns out, this is my major contribution to the evening's conversation, and later on I find myself recalling the line wistfully as belonging to a Golden Age. [...]

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.

[...] If I can't buy specially priced compilation albums for new girlfriends, then I might as well give up, because I'm not sure that I know how to do anything else.

I knew that Ken liked me, but I could never really work out why, apart from once he was looking for the original London cast recording of My Fair Lady, and I saw a copy at a record fair, and sent it to him. See where random acts of kindness get you? To fucking funerals, that's where.

[...] And when they do die it will hardly be the end of the world. Just, you know, wow, stop press, extremely ancient person dies. [...]