I am an expert.
In a faded ski-jacket and old trainers, it loafs along, dodging backward glances, following my every step.
I’ve had enough.
So I book my annual holiday in a motorway Ibis – amidst a migraine patchwork of dusty vegetation, flight paths and conveyor-belts over graphite lakes.
Here I await my brothers in failure.
I. Menu Rage
Geoff from accruals and accounts payable has ordered some ‘Ukrainian bird’ for marriage and children, perfect for flights from Kiev – her family a mixture of gangsters and radioactive meat suppliers.
We meet in the bar.
‘Women’s teeth are so important – have you read Zadie Smith?
‘Most Slavs suffer from halitosis. I’m hoping my luck will change.’
We discuss the menu. I am familiar with the dizzying rhetorical tricks but Geoff smiles in expectation.
“Here she comes…”
I can’t decide between Hunter’s Chicken and Harissa Lasagne.
No one has…
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