Diary, I swear, they were the most beautiful croissants I have seen in my life. As if they had been made by a sculptor like Michelangelo or Galileo. The three pieces looked identical. Shaped perfectly. Golden brown. Even from across the table you could see the layers of baked dough just waiting for the lightest touch to collapse into buttery delight.

I suddenly realized that I could see the lights on the ceiling reflecting off the surfaces of the croissants. Saliva began to pool in my mouth. And then my stomach made a little noise.

Dominic picked up one of the croissants and bit into it. At first there was nothing. Pure silence. Buttery silence. And then the faintest echo of a crunch from inside his mouth. In my mind I could feel my own teeth venturing through the croissant. Through the initial airy layers, and then my teeth meet the first few layers of thicker baked dough, and then a brief pause while the hollow bit in the centre give way … and then my teeth meet in the centre. Having completed the delicious journey through the croissant the bitten off piece begins to disintegrate on my tongue in an explosion of flavour and butter and golden crispiness and yellow softness and …

My stomach made another small noise. Thankfully Dominic didn’t hear this one either.

And then suddenly he dropped the croissant. Dominic was too full and he said that it was a pity that I had already eaten. He asked me to call the Polish woman and give her the rest.

She came in. Dominic asked her if she was hungry. She just looked at him. Then he asked her to take the croissants if she wanted. Again she said nothing. And then I interjected. I pointed at the croissants, then at my mouth, and then made chewing and then swallowing motions. She nodded her head, smiled and then turned around and left the room.

Oh Diary. Both of us laughed so much. Dominic threw back his head and laughed over and over again, and in between I tried to reach for one of the croissants, but by then he brought his head down again.

Dominic asked me how well I knew Tom Pastrami.

Honestly speaking, besides the occasional passing-by hi–hello in the office, and that LLTLF meeting, I’d never really spoken to Tom at all since coming to London. I am pretty sure he wouldn’t recognize me if he suddenly saw me. He probably doesn’t even know who Robin Einstein Varghese is. (Though I am sure he still remembers the voicemail controversy …)