Last night I dreamt you ordered a pepperoni pizza. It came with seven garlic dips. Me: Why do we need seven garlic dips? You: Because I like garlic dips. And I don’t think this is going to be enough. I’m going to order more. Me: More? You: Yes. I like dipping my pizza in garlic. I think 777 should do it. Me: You’ve lost it. You’re going to order 777 garlic dips? You’re not even going to eat the seven we’ve got here. You: Chill out, Tom. I’ll pay for it. Me: Okay, but you have to get the delivery man back and explain to him why you want 777 dips. You stuck your head out the window and called him back. Then there was a pecking at the door. You opened it and the same delivery man was there but this time he was sat on an ostrich. You: I’d like to order 777 garlic dips please. Me: I’m so sorry she’s placing such a big order. Delivery man: That’s okay. I get it all the time. That’s why I brought the ostrich. Me: Right. Well, is it possible to order all these garlic dips? Delivery man: Anything is possible. Me: Great! How long will it take? Delivery man: That’s where Belinda comes in. Me: Who’s Belinda? Ostrich: I’m Belinda. I turned to you. Me: The ostrich talks. You: All ostriches talk. Me: I expect she lays garlic dips as well. You: Why else would the delivery man be riding an ostrich? You’re so slow sometimes. Belinda: I’m so sorry to interrupt but it’s already been a long night. As soon as this man gets off my back, I’ll ask that you lead me to your garlic dip laying room. You: Of course. Follow me. Me: We have a garlic dip laying room? You: Where else is Belinda going to lay them? Honestly, Tom! Do you have this sort of problem at home, Belinda? Belinda: Don’t get me started on men.
It was a few weeks into autumn and I hadn’t had a hair cut since before the summer solstice. My beard, long and straggly and in desperate need of trimming, was a week away from having birds nest in it. I unpolished my boots and wore some old jeans that were ripped at the knees and dirty from digging a deep hole on a particularly wet day in Highgate Cemetery. Hanging loosely over the top of those was a baggy grey jumper I spilt half a bottle of bleach over about three years ago. I looked a bit of a state, but there was a method to my madness. Today was the day I was going to ask Moon for a pay rise and I wanted to look as if I’d been trod on. On the morning I was due to ask him, my bike got a puncture not twenty yards down the road from my house. It wasn’t a polite slow puncture so that I might finish my journey on a squidgy but rideable front tyre; the thorn tore through that poor inner tube like a javelin through jelly and it had me riding on a stee...
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