A Taste of Honey

After we got in from dancing, I kissed Trina goodnight and left her to a peaceful night of bellowing away in my room, while I put a quilt on the old sofa cushion in the living room. The lodger's noisy fan bores its expensive drone through the ceiling.

An hour or so later, there is a loud noise at the door, revving my heart with every bang. I immediately think of bailiffs. I pretend to be asleep, but someone shines a powerful torch through the chink in the curtains, so the game is up.

I pull my trousers on and blinkingly open the door. It's two police officers. They ask about Gail, the girl who squatted here for three weeks last year without paying a penny in rent. Relieved, I want to be helpful, and my speech adopts the middle class register I use in times of bother. I say that although I don't know where she is, I can give them the name of the pub where she used to work. They nod, repeat the name of the pub back to me, then apologise for bothering me at 4.30am on a Sunday morning.

The following morning Trina, the lodger and I have a conflab, and we surmise that they'd bad and urgent news to impart; if they were after her for something criminal they'd hardly have taken my word about her whereabouts without searching the house.

My phone beeps and it's Karen, the one with "nice tits"--a phrase that became a leitmotif of the weekend we all spent together a while ago. She is after something you can't buy in a supermarket. I reply.

Hello you sexy girl--lovely to hear from you. Hope all's well in the wilds of W----. I am afraid that the cupboard is a bit bare at the moment. I'd love something myself but if I hear of anything I'll let you know. I'm trying to get something organised for a friend's do next month so if that comes off I'll let you know. In the meantime we could just have sex instead though. JOKING! :) Take care XXX

First though, I send it to the receptionist at the girls' school, with whom I'd been talking about an administrative matter a minute previously.

Karen doesn't reply.

"'Honey'," I say to myself.

In further Ramadam news, my china quiche dish is returned. It is crowded with bhajis, pakoras, samosas and vegetable rolls. I must find out, from a reliable Guide to Muslim--Infidel Etiquette, the appropriate way to repay such abundant neighbourly generosity. Or I could just be honest with them and ask them if they're allowed to eat anything I make, or whether the sauce of unbelief fatally mars my provender.