A young man is sitting at the next table, boyish looks, slack grey sweater, smooth neck, we are close, physically, separated by a Perspex screen.  The juxtaposition feels voyeuristic. There’s a voicemail message on my ‘phone, but I can’t access it because of PIN number uncertainty.  I wonder who it was.  Normally I don’t worry … Continue reading 70.  Tuesday afternoon.  Mid-luncheon at St Pancras. →