Thursday, April 15, 2004

The Dangling Conversation 

We discuss it over lunch. Not in the office restaurant, good grief, no. We’re dining in the sophisticated elegance of the furthest away supermarket café I can think of. Much more discreet.
Diana is wearing a black sweater. Lambs wool, probably. Full length skirt, olive green, canvassy sort of material, generous cut. Black suede shoes.
No - Girlfriend doesn’t read the blog. At least I don’t think so. I’m sure she would have mentioned it if she did.
How would she re-act if she found out? I don’t know.
Do I really have a music publisher called Dave? Yes, his name really is Dave.

I ask about her voluntary work. To be honest, I can’t remember a lot of the things she tells me - the names of places she’s been, projects she’s worked on, the people she’s helped. They swim around my head. No shit, it’s an impressive roll call of worthwhile doings.

By the time the conversation lulls, it’s quarter past two. We’ve talked for ninety minutes and lunch hour finished fifteen minutes ago.

“I described you as a Love Goddess,” I say, sheepishly.
“And a Category A Babe. Whatever the hell that means.”
“Yes. I’m feeling a bit foolish about that now. I can go back and change it if you like. I had no right to, you know…”
“Embroil me? Nah, don’t worry about it,” she says. And then she laughs. “It’s funny, ‘cos I’ve always imagined my life as a performance being played out for the entertainment of others.”

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