Over the past two weeks*, I have partaken of food or drink with the following:
The source of my Y chromosome, the source of my mitochondrial DNA, the source of her mitochondrial DNA, a GP (retired), a faux-Liverpudlian, a globe-trotter, a zombie star and the owner of a pink BlackBerry pearl. Then there was the boy with the black car, the girl with the giant lawnmower (fictive) and the revolutionary who always made it to school. Someone only wanted a little wine, another desired only her lover, while my tea (milk, no sugar) with a third was only grudgingly allowed. Three more joined me for hot, tasty chips, carried home through a dark autumn evening and tasting all the better for it. I stayed talking with a future investment banker (perhaps) until closing time. A man in a blue shirt bought me a glass of wine (small) as a team discussed tactics. And let’s certainly not forget my employer, my compatriot, two tweeters and their proud father. Or the homeless man I took to Costa yesterday who, Brent informs me, fails to meet their ‘vulnerability criteria’. I bet he’s cold tonight.
(*Measured from about 6ish yesterday.)
