Nothing worse

She told some story about single casks and small batch distillers and blah blah blah whisky pointlessness. There’s nothing worse than a connoisseur. I sat and smoked and sipped my drink as she went on, filling the air with vapid small talk and clouds of smoke.

A million things

I wished a million things as she answered the door. That I was three stone lighter. That I could still bench ninety kilos. That my hair was sun streaked blond, not Just For Men grey. That my face was more Beckham than Bagpuss.

And I wished the last twenty years had brought us together, not pulled us apart.