I’ve never met a girl who hero-worships Martin Amis as I do — except maybe his wife

M. ‘I’ve spotted him!’

Me. ‘Where?’

M. ‘Down there. Having a coffee. On his own.’

Me. ‘Hey. Do you think he’d like it if we joined him?’

M. ‘I doubt it. He’s reading a book.’

D. ‘God, is he reading his own book? Unbelievable. He’s reading Yellow Dog.’

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James Hanson

Donald Trump is making the same mistake as Neville Chamberlain

M. ‘No it’s not. I think it’s Hitch 22.’

Me. ‘Yeah well, whatever it is, look, he’s almost at the end. You know how it is when you’re nearly at the end of the book. You want to prolong the moment. So we’d be doing him a favour.’

M. ‘You can if you want to. I’m staying here.’

Me. ‘Coward. What about you, D?’

D. ‘Well we’ve come all this way. Seems a shame not to try…’

Back home in England, you’d never get away with it because: a) it would be considered a touch infra dig, and b) he’d never present such an obvious sitting target for such a prolonged period of time.