It occurs to me how weird it is that this isn’t weird. We are sitting at a table in a cosy room, talking about personal things, when I’m not convinced he even knows when my birthday is. Every time I’ve tried over the years to get to know him, he’s dismissed my questions as flim-flam devised to delay work. I give in when he gives me the big eyes. He’d hate to know they’re like Bambi’s eyes, and particularly cute today as they’re surrounded by all that wild, tousled, Stig of the Dump hair.
