I was happily devising a new pie chart to show how many KW of energy ten civil servants save by using the lift instead of the stairs when a familiar shadow loomed over my desk. Mr A, resplendent in an expensive looking taupe linen suit decided to honour me with a flying visit prior to returning to Brussels in a fortnight's time. He looked fairly dejected and the bags under his eyes were giving him a tired look he'd never exhibited before. Apparently it transpired that he'd ended things with Marta when she proceeded to get drunk aboard the Orient Express (the very trip which he'd promised me!) and mock Mrs A's decision to wear compression socks on a train journey "she was't best pleased Margaret!" was his droll comment.
I allowed him to take me to lunch - he offered to pay and the pie chart wasn't proving a particularly thrilling midday companion. We went to Carlucci's nearby and dined on tagliatelle, salad and a carafe of Frascati. Mr A asked after me and I told him about Wilf, my Father's obsession with burrowing underground and my Mother's love of new age theories. He looked pensive and stated that he'd worked with Wilf ten years ago and he always thought there was something a little strange about him! Pot calling kettle methinks!
After completing our meal with a complementary After Eight, he kissed me before returning to the tube station. I'd like to say that I didn't enjoy it and it meant nothing to me, but I can honestly say that would be a lie.
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