I need to be in London, I need flexible hours . . .‘ 

Why, what‘s your stroke?‘ 

My what?‘

Your stroke. Everyone who works here has a stroke. Waiter-stroke-artist, waiter-strokeactor. Paddy the bartender claims to be a model, but frankly I‘m doubtful.‘

Weeeeeell,‘ said Ian, in what she took to be a Northern accent, ‗I suppose I‘d have to saythat I‘m a comedian!‘ Grinning, he splayed his hands either side of his face and gave them anend-of-pier waggle.

 ‗Right. Well, we all like to laugh. What, like a stand-up or something?‘ 

‗Stand-up mainly. What about you?‘ 

Me?‘ 

Your stroke? What else do you do?‘ 

She thought about saying ‗playwright‘ but even after three months the humiliation ofbeing Emily Dickinson to an empty room still burned bright. She might as well say‗astronaut‘ as ‗playwright‘, there was as much truth in it. ‗Oh, I do this—‘ She peeled an old burrito from its carapace of hardened cheese. ‗This is what I do.‘ 

‗And do you like it?‘

‗Like it? I love it! I mean I‘m not made of wood.‘ She wiped the day-old ketchup onto aused napkin and headed for the door. ‗Now, let me show you the toilets. Brace yourself . . .‘

****

Since I started this letter I’ve drank(drunken? dronk?) two more beers and so am ready to say this

now. Here goes. Em, we’ve known each other five or six years now, but two years properly, as, you

know, ‘friends’, which isn’t that long but I think I know a bit about you and I think I know what your

problem is. And be aware that I have a lowish 2. 2 in

Anthropology, so I know what I’m talking about.

If you don’t want to know my theory, stop reading now.

 

Good. Here it is. I think you’re scared of being happy, Emma. I think you think that the natural

way of things is for your life to be grim and grey and dourand to hate your job, hate where you live,

not to have success or money or God forbid a boyfriend (and a quick discersion here – that whole

self-deprecating thing about being unattractive is getting pretty boring I can tell you).