Low life | 6 July 2017

Up on the fifth floor the wind was like thunder. Wild gusts shook the window glass so violently I thought it might smash, which lent the occasion an unexpected drama and significance. I couldn’t entirely shake off the faint and appallingly egotistical suspicion that the universe strongly approved, or strongly disapproved, or something. My digestive system certainly disapproved. Viagra and the tart cheap fizz had brought on exquisitely agonising acid reflux. As it was getting on for nine o’clock, we decided that if we didn’t get up right now, leave the hotel, and go and find something to eat, we’d starve.

As we walked down the hill into the teeth of the gale, raindrops hit us in the face like tiny bullets. Strings of coloured lights danced madly between the lampposts. After 50 yards we came upon a conservatory-type fish and chip restaurant, brightly lit outside and in. Through the window we could see customers bent busily over their plates. That’ll do, we said. As I pulled open the door, the wind tried to wrestle it out of my hand and make off with it across the English Channel.

Only a few of the dozen or so plastic tables were occupied. The flames of the tealights on them flared and tugged frantically at their wicks. We chose a corner table, threw off our wet coats and sat opposite each other. She took up the plastic single-sheet menu and studied it calmly and intelligently. Flustered by restaurants as I am, even fish and chip restaurants, I was amazed at her poise. There was also a wine list. Again the expert, decisive eye. I looked around at the other diners, expecting incredulous stares, and was glad and a little surprised to note that I had been approved and accepted as being nothing out of the ordinary.