After tea on Saturday I had an argument with myself about whether to stay in or go to the pub. The timid side of me listed several valid reasons for staying in, including the 20-mile round trip on icy roads. These my intrepid side sarcastically dismissed one by one, insisting that they merely added up to the single fact that I’ve become a bore. I decided in the end to stay in and read an improving book.
Slightly regretting the decision, I chucked another log on the fire, took another sip of green tea, and focused my concentration on Bernard Crick’s jaunty introduction to Machiavelli’s Discourses. After half a page my mobile rang. It was Tom. He was speaking from a noisy pub and slurring his words. ‘Jerry, I’m looking for horse,’ he yelled. ‘Horse?’ I said, wondering if I’d heard right. ‘Horse!’ he yelled again.
I haven’t seen Tom for over a year.
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