I kept it in the attic –

under lock and key –

a youthful, fresh-faced picture

of who I used to be.

And this face you see before you,

I dragged around my life –

growing wrinkled, gnarled and ravaged –

for its vicissitudes were rife.

But meanwhile, in the attic,

that pure and hopeful face,

immune to life’s misfortunes,

bore not one single trace.

For years I hid it from her,

but in shame I did confess.

She listened to my story

then said, ‘That’s because it’s a photograph, you idiot.’

I hadn’t finished the book, of course, but I went anyway. I’d hoped to try and ingratiate my way back into the group through the use of some of Wildean witticisms:

‘To fail to read one book may be regarded as a misfortune; to fail to read every book looks like illiteracy.’

‘I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read on the bus.’

‘I can resist anything except pistachios.’

But they fell on resolutely deaf ears. The group turned to me after they’d finished their discussion. I was to be given one last chance: read next month’s book and make a proper contribution – or I was out.

The book: This Bridge No Hands Shall Cleave by Toby Salt.

I stared morosely at the pub’s wallpaper. It was dreadful. One of us will have to go.

Thursday September 27th

‘I hear they’re all heading off, then?’ said Darren. We were pre-gig and for once he was not holding a big luminescent sign.

‘Yes.’ I gave him a look that suggested I didn’t want to talk about it.

‘America,’ he said, with an involuntary whistle to emphasise the enormity of the word.

I intensified my look.

‘Long way, that,’ he continued. ‘Very long way.’

‘Have you seen this guy before?’ I asked him, in an attempt to change the conversation. We were waiting for Little Floyd Wetherspoon to come on stage. He was a blues singer who was reinterpreting the genre for the modern age.

‘Still, at least it’s east coast. Three thousand two hundred and sixty-five miles to Boston, it is, or thereabouts. From Heathrow, that is.’ ‘I’ve heard Wetherspoon’s not his real name. He adopted it in an unsuccessful attempt to secure a nationwide deal with the popular pub chain of the same name.’

‘The flight time isn’t so bad,’ he mused. ‘Seven hours. But don’t forget you need to factor in all that hanging around at the airport, both sides. And then there’s the cost!’ He whistled again.

‘I don’t know for sure about the “Little Floyd” bit. But that sounds made up, too.’

‘Must be hard for you. An ocean between you and your son. A whole ocean.’