Just about all I can remember is that recounting the plot of whatever box set you’re watching isn’t even low-quality chat. So why do I keep doing it?
It was the first day that six people could legitimately gather in a garden, and by unholy coincidence, as if the universe loved us again, also not hailing. Some friends, let’s call them A and Mr A, came round for a drink. Nothing’s happened to any of us, and we consequently have way too much to say. Words splurged out of me like I was a slot machine paying out a big win, but not in very high denominations. All 2ps and buttons. I veered wildly from the huge to the tiny, from the past to the present. Did I say my friend was in hospital? Had I mentioned the neighbour’s dog had the exact same bark as our dog? Did I ever tell them about that amazing party in Dover Street? Yes, they were there, it was their wedding.
Something had flooded my circuitry: seeing them again after so long had activated the them-part of my brain, and I was telling them their own anecdotes. Mr A asked for an opinion about the big boat in the Suez canal instead, and I told him that opinions were my bread and butter and he’d have to festoon me with cash for those. He asked if it had to be money or would crisps do, and I said they’d do fine, then he threw crisps at me, only they missed by a mile. “It’s because they’re ridged,” he said. “Gah, I’m such an amateur! How can anybody predict the aerodynamics of a ridged crisp?”
