It’s a cold morning. I’m at Enoteca on Ramsgate seafront, and I’m in a terrible mood. I’ve had the worst night’s sleep in living memory, as I woke in the early hours from a dream in which I was digging up a dead relative in order to prove that they’d put his shoes on the wrong feet. As it turned out, I was right…but that doesn’t mean much when you’re suddenly awake at 3am….
This is a post about fortune telling. This is not a post about me wearing my wife’s underwear…but I DO look cheeky in it.
I hate waiting for people, and this guy is over an hour late. An hour late. It makes me wonder at what point you stop being late and start being dead. I know it’s morbid, and I know I’m a depressing b*stard, but there’s a certain point whenever I’m left waiting for somebody that I naturally assume they’re dead. You see, I have that level of misguided self-importance: I am, in fact, telling myself that the only reason someone would no-show at a meeting with me is naturally because they’ve died. Weirdly, I start to miss him….and I’ve only met him twice.