Kindle Notes & Highlights
cooker – its white, enamelled surface coated in a thin layer of sticky, brown grease; and the fridge – wedged tightly between two ageing, dilapidated cupboards. He stood in his underwear clutching a heavy, copper-based saucepan in his right hand and stared at the last of his provisions sitting on the worktop: half a pint of milk, a knob of butter and two brown, speckled eggs. The only decision he had to make was: fried, boiled, poached or scrambled? He spun the pan by the handle as he contemplated his options. Frying involved
to smithereens and splattering himself and the worktop with dollops of bright, yellow yolk and sticky, white albumen in the process. Sneering, he dropped the pan to the floor, showered and dressed for work. * * * Andrew Maxwell Stewart, “Max” to those who knew him, cursed as he forced himself into his suit which, he’d been assured, was cut in a style deemed to be de rigueur for someone in his profession, despite his reflection telling him it belonged on somebody six inches shorter. The ridiculously slim-fitting jacket inhibited any kind of movement from the elbow up and
obstacles, in particular the hordes of zombies who bumbled along with their heads buried in their phones, fearful of missing another “tweet”, a “like”, or, God forbid, a photo of what their “friends” ate for dinner the night before. He paused by the door, took a deep breath, and walked inside. * * * The receptionist, a young, lissom brunette by the name of Lizzie, thought of him as sartorially elegant and, with his ruffled hair and two days’ worth of stubble on his boyish,
