A Portrait
I grew up in Wiltshire. Boarding school, cut-glass accent, hills that go on forever. I loved it and I couldn't wait to leave, and I’ve spent my life since finding better ways to be led astray.
Appetite is as much a matter of spirit as flesh, and I’ve always learned the way some people eat: past the point of necessity, just for pleasure. Hence too many years in libraries, and yet another language that’s still a work in progress and probably always will be. I’ve been told I have an unusual mind. I've also been told other things, but we'll get to that.
I know a good evening while it’s still happening: a conversation that outgrows its question; a meal that’s quietly become three hours; a set that runs past closing; a last drink somewhere that’s forgotten to ask us to leave. At some point my knee finds yours under the table, though neither of us mentions it.
My threshold for yes is lower than it should be, and whatever has my attention always has all of it. In short: I make a good dinner guest and a better secret.
I’d rather do things than imagine them. Most people, I’ve noticed, are the other way round. And I suspect, I rather hope, that you’re not most people.
The other things, you'll have to find out for yourself.