game show. Now, I hadn’t turned all Humbert Humbert. Don’t fret. Instead I was meeting up with Deborah. And she’d brought a date. The road to redemption was beset on all sides by inequity. And the content of the conversation wasn’t revealing a new-found vegetarianism. Fuck that. I’d knocked the fags and booze on the head, there’s no way chicken and chops were joining the list of banned substances. Rather, I’d chosen a vegetarian pasta dish from a menu characterised by transfats. Okay, I’d often eat at the best joints on the block, but my bugle intake barely left an appetite and last time I checked squashed grapes didn’t count towards your five-a-day. So now, on occasion, I’d swerve the sow in favour of a vitamin-filled veggie feast. Fortunately I didn’t always have to explain my decision to the Junior Spanish inquisition. So Deborah. Debs. Debbie. Deborah. She came post-German lessons with Laura Stanton, post-coat rape by Mrs Jenkins, post-ruined trainers by the virginal shop assistant and pre- …well, pre-a suitcase full of one-nighters I couldn’t remember the name of.
