There was a dinner party. A friend of a friend turned up in a diva’s fur coat. Underneath this, a leopard print shirt. She wore rich red lipstick and black boots with thick soles that gave her an extra two inches. Instinctively, I disliked her, but I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. Canapes were served in the glass conservatory, strangely reminiscent of my grandmother’s bungalow extension. A magician with a speech impediment pulled cards out of the air. Each time he spat his words out I moved a little closer to him, until he stopped his tricks and began to explain to the small crowd that billionaires weren’t so bad because their wealth was mainly in fixed assets rather than sloshing around in their bank accounts. He smiled at me, patronisingly. I imagined throwing him through the fixed asset of the window, but then the host brought out olive tapenade on cheap white toast, grilled chicory, and fizzy wine. I smiled back as he spilt the wine on his white shirt. In the distance, purplish flashes lit up the horizon. The champagne flutes rattled on their plastic trays. The diva appeared beside me. I whispered something in her ear about sulphates being sprayed into the stratosphere, slipped a photo of an abandoned town into her pocket, then excused myself and stepped out into the warm air. I had expunged the word ‘unseasonable’ from all the books I owned half a dozen years ago. The magician had restarted his routine. I walked away from the window, about twenty yards or so. The light of a few stars wriggled through the faintly orange night. I picked up a stone and threw it at the glass.
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