‘You have cat hair on your left tit.’ ‘You have lipstick on your right ear.’ ‘It’s fashionable!’ but she wiped it off. ‘Come round to ...he flat tonight around eight?’ I nodded, closed down my laptop, grabbed my coat and went home again. She was right, of course, we did love each other. It had not been said before but it was true. I wrestled with myself, cursing a middle class upbringing and conventional values. I wanted to be what she wanted but it isn’t easy to shrug off twenty years of. On Monday morning I started work, at the impressive new Portland stone bank building, heated throughout by hot radiators, with wonders such as a passenger lift (made in Leicester I was delighted to see). No more winter days in an icy room heated only by a tiny coal fire, with me as the junior having to provide the kindling (the older men provided the coal), clean the grate in the mornings and feed the fire through the day. In the Loughborough branch counting house, the fire was obscured on many. More

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