She said: when you come back from the bathroom, you have to have learned something, and then teach it to us. We were in Oxford Street’s take on an American diner, snug in a booth, the remains of chilli fries and the crumbs of a burger scattered between us. The kind of place where the waiter offers you three beers, and there’s no haggling over what kind because there’s just one kind. The bathroom was papered with instruction manuals. How to avoid terrible pick-up lines. How to emergency land a plane. How to determine if your date is an axe murderer.


Watch out for people that kick small animals, apparently. Also: waiter, you said the burger did not need a pickle. It was a great burger. But there is no burger than cannot benefit from a pickle. Times like these, I miss the States.

Life is full of lessons lately. Not all of them fun, but it’s good to be learning.

Oh, and PS – fantastic Mr Ford himself has kindly supplied the missing poem from yesterday’s post, and was even magnanimous about me incorrectly attributing the editor poem to him. I tip my hat to you, sir.

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