For drinks, English's. I told George about my encounter with Karen and, feeling low, I must have told the truth or, more likely, given too much detail because he found it hilarious. I described to him the incident at Christmas with Thom and his girlfriend, Lyra, the incident that led to us falling out and of which Karen knew nothing. Until friday, in Diana's.

So, she didn't know about the goblet?

Well, she knew it existed, of course she did. It was for me, for drinking wine at home. But yes, it was modeled on her breast, how could she not know? We made the cast together. She wasn't aware that whenever Thom came round to my house, he used the goblet for his lemonade. 

So Thom didn't know the goblet was modeled on his mum's breast? This was making his day.

Why should he? He  liked drinking his lemonade out of it. I didn't tell him the provenance. 

Normally George would have been on his second gin by now, but he was loving this. I was making a fool of myself and, more significantly, of feeling myself sink into the role. George is incredibly well connected but he has no friends, so it was safe. He narrowed his eyes and straying well beyond his usual territory, said:

So, what would happen if Thom came round and you were about to pour a goblet of wine and he wanted a goblet of lemonade, then who would get his way, as it were?

Fuck off, George.

I had never told George to fuck off before, neither playfully, nor seriously. He seemed to take it very easily. I made a note of it.

So, what happened? What did Lyra say?

Well, she  pointed at Thom's lemonade and laughed. Thom said, why are you laughing? She said his cup looked like a breast. It had never occurred to him before. But either she is very stupid or very clever, because she then said, I wonder whose breast it is?

And of course you told them.

I was tired. George, I don't tell the truth, but I don't lie either.  George didn't deserve this, a truth that was true, so I carried on talking. I tried soaring into a Nietzschean argument for the relativity of truth, but soon fell into justifying myself.

Of course I told him. When truth is in the room, you answer it. 

I stared at him. His conscience wasn't great, either. We'd get round to him soon enough, but nothing stirred. Yes, granted, it may seem imperial and rather ridiculous to make a goblet cast from your wife's breast. Yet, didn't the very first goblet of wine, according to Greek myth, come from the breast of Helen of Troy? I didn't remind George of this, though straying onto his territory would've been very appropriate. Instead, I said:

He's my son. One day he'll inherit it.

Inherit...?

The goblet.