There’s a line about love in a Laurie Lee essay: ‘Love still has the intimations of immortality to it, if we’re willing to pay it tribute… [it is also the delight] in being content now and then to lie by one’s sleeping love, and to shield her eyes from the sun.’ I would add to this, I think, a mystery novel (something properly ghoulish and precise on human nature, like Ruth Rendell), and a bottle of fiery ginger beer; perhaps also a small dog soundly asleep; and a samosa in the hand that isn’t shielding the eyes of the sleeping love: that’s a little moment of perfect happiness right there,
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