“It’s a glass ball for a Christmas tree. What’s un-normal about it?” “Firstly, it’s covered in painted ballerinas. Secondly, it’s fifty quid.” “For a set?” “No, for one.” For a brief moment, he gets very, very London-by-way-of-Sheffield. “You’re having a laugh.” I show him the label. “Fucking hell.” “Are you not extremely rich?” I tease him. “Yes, but I’m not extremely stupid. Now put that down.”
