I am talking to a swinging couple. The wife has written books about their lifestyle. She gives me her first book. I flick through it, uncomfortable with the naked photos and graphic descriptions, even though they are fine with it. I remark at how ‘vanilla’ it is. She passes me another book.
This one is black, with white text, each page shiny black latex. It details her boredom with sex and her experiments with a more general sensualism, focussing more on sensations such as temperature and texture.
I read about her lover worth £60t.
He buys entire towns and rigs the stock market, yet confesses that the only purchase to bring him happiness is his garden shed, where he sits and reads in the sunlight.
I walk into the street. My boss his there. He really enjoyed a recent gig of mine he heard on the radio. I haven’t the heart to tell him that it wasn’t me.
A van pulls up. We load it with adults with severe learning difficulties. They are happy and wave goodbye as we slam the doors shut.