1pm. In town with George. I had a burning desire to hear everything about Bikram yoga so we clasped shoulders, sat down slowly like men of weight, ordered a Moroccan salad, each, and talked about Margaret Thatcher. And it will come as no surprise to anyone to remember that George and I first met in a club for sexual fetishists. At that time, endeavouring to overcome our respective divorces, George and I went on to share six or seven women in various states of agony, and undress. Quietly, we used to appraise each others' technique. Though, as an academic historian, I am not sure that George knew what he was appraising, exactly. As a therapist, he accepted my greater, possibly intuitive understanding. ' But I am not sure it was Karen...' What? I couldn't stop the colour draining from my face. So is she doing Bikram Yoga or not...? Inevitably, the lunch became alcoholic. I ordered banoffee pie and beer, George had gin. But we made a fist of it. George flapped around, searching for a mutual acquaintance to denigrate. With our opening gambit still on my mind, I laid waste to contemporary politics. Three hours later we were two large, airy bags of fire and bombast. We clasped shoulders again but then, as if an afterthought, hugged for real.