I said, the following day. “It’s Tiffany here.”“Oh, hallo,” he said, somewhat unenthusiastically.“I’m just ringing to say that I saw you on the news last night.”“Well, you know, that’s not unusual.”“Oh I know, Mungo. I mean, you’re never off the small screen. But I just wanted to say that I thought your report about the homeless was really fantastic. Very hard hitting.”“Yes,” he said, “it was.”“It had me really staring at the television set.”“Thanks.”“With my hands reaching into my pockets.”“Oh, good.”“And that chap you interviewed, whatsisname . . . oh I don’t know, the bloke dishing out the soup . . .” I waited for Mungo to tell me his name. Please tell me his name, will you, Mungo? Please. “Er, I can’t quite remember what his name is from the report . . .”“Oh, that bloke in the van, you mean.”“Yes. Very interesting-looking chap.” Tell. Me. His. Name. “I just wondered . . .”“Interesting? Bloody unhelpful, actually.
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