Like an automaton, he changed on to the District Line at Hammersmith and got off at Turnham Green. With his eyes half-closed he walked down to Chiswick High Road, where habit drove him into an off-licence. He bought a bottle of Veuve Clicquot – might as well do things properly – half a bottle of brandy and some angosturas. The Scot who managed the place with a grim disregard for the convenience of his customers scratched his red beard, leant his great belly against the counter and said: ‘Having a party, are we? If you’re going to mix those, you’d be far better off with sparkling wine.’ Dougal was too tired to think of an answer. He took the clanking carrier bag and left the shop, banging his thigh on a monolith constructed of beer cans on the way out. A dry Scottish chuckle followed him out into the night. Amanda lived on the other side of the High Road, the side nearer the river. You could sense its great grey presence a quarter of a mile away, and even see a tiny square of water, framed by buildings, from the window of Amanda’s room.
What do You think about Caroline Minuscule (2012)?
