He is a writer and a poet looking for a muse.
        He has one of those posh English accents that make men sound smart no matter what they say.
        We meet next to the Oscar Wilde monument in Adelaide Street.
        He has short legs, sunburnt skin, square bloodless lips, eyes that beg for sympathy, no nose and a big head whose egg shape he emphasizes with the help of round sunglasses. He wears a pink shirt and a purple sweater slung over his chicken shoulders. The sleeves are tied into a knot in front of his chicken chest.
        ‘How about tea at Somerset House?’ he asks,
        It is a warm spring day. The sun is up. The sky is blue. What can be more pleasant than sitting on a terrace overlooking the Thames and having a conversation with a writer?
        I decide to give poultry a chance.
        Except – face-to-face he admits he is actually a university lecturer who wants to be a writer – hence the search for a muse.
        We don’t seem to have read the same books so I try to talk about theatre. He hates all Westend shows, considers the NT overrated, thinks the Globe a fraud – and hasn’t actually been to the theatre in fifteen years.
        ‘Why should I waste good money on bad shows?’
        ‘How do you know they are bad if you never go see them?’
        ‘Because the only writer worth his salt is one William Shakespeare; maybe you have heard of him? And no, I don’t watch his plays either.’
        ‘Why not?’
        ‘Because actors and directors distort him. It takes years of study and research to understand him.’
        ‘And Shakespeare would prefer to be studied and researched by wise men in the privacy of their homes and not be put on stage by artists?’
        ‘Exactly.’ – Not a trace of irony.
        ‘This is what he wrote plays for? – To be read by scholars?’
        ‘Scholars certainly make better use of them than the Royal Shakespeare Company.’
        I cannot remember the rest of the conversation.
        He drops two pounds on the table and waits for me to put down money for my peppermint tea. He counts out the change to make sure we leave an equal amount of tip and hands me 5p I overpaid.
        In Charing Cross he stays while I wait for my train. His fingers close around my arm like frozen jellyfish. They stick to my skin, cold and relentless.
        ‘I want to see you again.’
        ‘Why?’
        ‘I just really want to see you again.’
        ‘Really?’
        ‘Oh yes.’
        ‘Oh.’
        My silence makes him loosen his grip.
        ‘Maybe better not.’ I say.
        ‘Oh.’
        The arrival of my train saves me.
        ‘Bye.’ I say and run.
        ‘I might still give you a call,’ he shouts after me.
        The one good thing I can say about him is that he never does.