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By Root 591 0

off the menu. I never felt like asking. The day before last, however, I decided to open a joint bank account. I filled out the forms, coldly supervised by the watchful, sharp-shouldered Selina. That morning she went to bed in black stockings, tasselled garter belt, satin thong, silk bolero, muslin gloves, belly necklace and gold choker. I made a real pig of myself, I have to admit. An hour and a half later she turned to me, with one leg still hooked over the headboard, and said, 'Do it, anywhere, anything.' Things had unquestionably improved, what with all this new dignity and self-respect about the place.

Last night, then, about twenty to eleven, I was sitting in the Blind Pig. America tomorrow. I was in thoughtful mood — expansive, self-questioning, philosophical, if not downright drunk. Selina was seeing Helle, her pal at the boutique. I had a present for Selina: a spanking new chequebook. I would hold it out towards her, and watch her shine. Selina had a present for me too: some new bag-gimmicks, a selection from Helle's under-the-counter underwear. I was just sitting there, not stirring, not even breathing, like the pub's pet reptile, when who should sit down opposite me but that guy Martin Amis, the writer. He had a glass of wine, and a cigarette — also a book, a paperback. It looked quite serious. So did he, in a way.

Small, compact, wears his rug fairly long ,.. The pub's two doors were open to the hot night. That seems to be the deal in early summer, tepid days and hot nights. It's a riot. Anything goes.

I was feeling friendly, as I say, so I yawned, sipped my drink, and whispered, 'Sold a million yet?'

He looked up at me with a flash of paranoia, unusual in its candour, its bluntness. I don't blame him really, in this pub. It's full of turks, nutters, martians. The foreigners around here. I know they don't speak English—okay, but do they even speak Earthling? They speak stereo, radio crackle, interference. They speak sonar, bat-chirrup, pterodactylese, fish-purr.

'Sorry?' he said.

'Sold a million yet?'

He relaxed. His off-centre smile refused to own up to something. 'Be serious,' he said.

'What you sell then?'

'Oh, a reasonable amount.'

I burped and shrugged. I burped again. 'Fuck,' I said. 'Pardon me.' 1 yawned. I stared round the pub. He returned to his book.

'Hey,' 1 said. 'Every day, do you... Do you sort of do it every day, writing? Do you set yourself a time and stuff?'

'No.'

'I wish I could stop fucking burping,' I said. He started reading again.

'Hey,' I said. 'When you, do you sort of make it up, or is it just, you know, like what happens?'

'Neither.'

'Autobiographical,' I said. 'I haven't read any of your books. There's, I don't really get that much time for reading.'

'Fancy,' he said. He started reading again.

'Hey,' I said. 'Your dad, he's a writer too, isn't he? Bet that made it easier.'

'Oh, sure. It's just like taking over the family pub.'

'Uh?'

'Time,' said the man behind the bar. 'Time. Time.'

'Here, you want another?' I asked him. 'Have a scotch.'

'No, I'm fine.'

'Yeah well I'm pretty well pissed myself. My girl'll be back soon. She's having one of her business dinners. She got this, a boutique. They're, she's trying to get people to invest in it.'

He made no reply. I yawned and stretched. I burped. As I got to my feet, I caught the table with my kneecap. His drink wobbled, like a coin, but he caught it. It didn't splash much.

'Fuck,' I said. 'Well, see you around, Martin.'

'No doubt.'

'... What's that mean?' I didn't much like his superior tone, come to think of it, or his tan, or his book. Or the way he stares at me in the street.

'Mean?' he said. 'What do you think it means?'

'You calling me a cunt?' I said loudly.

'What?'

'You called me a cunt!'

'You're mistaken.'

'Ah. So you're calling me a liar now. You're calling me a liar!'

'Hey, take it easy, pal. Christ. You're fine. You're great. I'll see you around,'

'... Yeah.'

'Take care now.'

'Yeah. All right then, Martin,' I said, and swayed out through the open door.

Eleven o'clock: the rioting hour. Policemen