‘You couldn’t change it?’

Because I honestly don’t know – really and truly – I don’t know why I was knitting her those socks. Why? When I think about it – logically – my having succumbed to this silly impulse – this improbably tender urge – I just … I’m just bewildered. Yes! Bemused. Nonplussed. Are they even for her? The socks? The three paltry rows so far completed? These non-socks? These ‘idea of socks’? These ‘contended’ pieces of un-knitwear?

Is it guilt? Over the satsuma incident? And if it is, then why am I behaving so objectionably now, when she’s so kindly brought me over a conciliatory pie? A Pie of Peace? Eh?

‘Maybe I could help? If it’s the money? I could refund you the rent you paid …’

No. No. I don’t know why I agreed to write the damn book! Or maybe I do. To get my own back. On them. On our dear Miss Hahn here with all her disgustingly kind suggestions. On … on Kimberly, even? By scapegoating Bran Cleary (an arch-seducer! An adulterer! A political neophyte! And artist for heaven’s sake!) and then diminishing my own humiliation? But I was already humiliated – wasn’t I? My reputation in shreds? After Tlateloco? After I got it all so wrong? And the dalliance with Win Scott? The way I trusted him to a fault. Not just once, but twice! Twice! The way he drew me in? Led me on?

‘I was planning to refund it anyway, I mean after I found out …’

Oh God I don’t know why Kim and I were never divorced. Or maybe I do know: she was my shield, my excuse – but for what? No. I don’t want to think about it. I just … I just …

‘It seems like the right thing to do.’

I don’t understand why the import/export business won’t really take off. Why can’t I make it work? Because I’m not an importer/exporter, I suppose, not a businessman, just a journalist. A discredited journalist! A laughing stock. And only Kimberly truly understood. The subtle pressures. The necessary compromises. The gentle log-rolling. Only Kimberly …

‘I’ll go into Rye and withdraw it from the bank. First thing in the morning.’

But there are plenty of people – plenty of expats – in Mexico in desperate need of reliable supplies of Robinson’s Barley Water, and Marmite and Colman’s Mustard and Oxo Cubes and Bird’s Custard Powder and Lyle’s Golden Syrup and McVitie’s Digestive Biscuits – a choice of plain, milk or dark chocolate (just tick relevant box).

There are plenty of blathering idiots. Moronic expats. Plenty of them.

Miss Hahn is speaking again. Kind Miss Hahn. Helpful Miss Hahn. I turn – without answering – and trot (like a little pony) through to the bathroom. As I do this I play back in my mind what she’s just said and realize that it’s: ‘Mr Huff, you’re a pale shade of green. You are going to be sick. Don’t use the toilet. It’ll block. There’s a perfectly good bucket here – there – under the sink.’