It’s all quite plush, for a sex room, newly built and well maintained. It’s better finished, by far, than my flat, and spotlessly clean.
A man at another table pointed at me, his hand trembling, and said, “Itzak Stern sat there.”
She looked disgusted, as if I’d admitted to a taste for rat, or beetroot, or something.
He tells me at length ‘what I should do’, which includes marrying his 48 year old niece. She’s a PE teacher, he says, guaranteeing her attractiveness.
He carries, at all times, a beautiful modern edition of The Art of War, which he reads during the break.
He asks me if I know Little Britain, and shows me a picture of the year he dressed up as Daffyd, the only Iranian gay in the village.
There was a thing by her in the turbine hall of Tate Modern a few years ago, enormous, black, metal spiders. Horrible.