I am at a wedding reception in a hotel in Southsea, champagne in hand. My wife is still in our room getting dressed. If I’d realised how few people I would know, I would have waited for her.
Eventually I find someone I know, and stick to him. A woman who also knows him approaches us.
“You look familiar,” she says to me. “What’s your name?”
I tell her. “That rings a bell,” she says. “What’s your surname?” I tell her.
“You will have read his column in the Guardian,” my friend says.
The woman looks at him, then at me. “That’s unlikely,” she says.
Work conversations are a big feature of weddings. The woman next to me at dinner is a film producer; the man next to her is in construction and development. Although we are all effectively freelance, I think they at least have colleagues.
“I’ve never had a real job,” I say.
“You’ve never had a job?” says the woman.
“I mean a staff job,” I say. “My son has an ID on a lanyard. I’ve never had one of those.”
“Is that your dream?” she says. “An ID on a lanyard?” I think about this for a bit.
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, it is.”
On Sunday morning my wife and I drive home, a journey that uses up the entire Archers Omnibus.
“And then she said, ‘That’s unlikely’,” I say.
“Oh dear,” my wife says.
“His corn on the cob was tremendously firm,” Peggy says.
“Later on I found some people who knew who I was,” I say. “But otherwise I just said I was a businessman.”
“I’m trying to listen to this,” my wife says.
When we get home the oldest one is in the kitchen. Evidently he spent the night, and intends to spend another: his work lanyard is on the table, his laundry on the floor.
“How was your paid holiday?” I say.
“I’m so hungover,” he says. The youngest one walks in.
“Also hungover, by the looks of it,” my wife says.
“What?” the youngest says.
“There’s lunch, but I’m not making it,” my wife says.
After lunch I sit in the kitchen with the paper, listening to the younger two argue in the sitting room. They have done this all their lives, relentlessly. I can’t hear the words, just the familiar tone of the debate: insistence versus incredulity. The oldest one walks in.
“They’re bickering,” I say.
“I know,” he says. “I was just in there.”
“What’s it about?”
“Whether people with YouTube channels are stupid,” he says. A classic, I think: talent v entrepreneurial flair; the dubious merits of fame as a commodity, material success weighed against the pointlessness of one’s output. I’ve heard it before.
“This is my last comment on the matter!” says the middle one from the other room. Twenty minutes later, he is still talking.
Three of the oldest one’s friends come and drag him out. A few hours later they bring him back, and stay. After my wife goes to bed I hear them laughing in the kitchen. Eventually I go through to lock the back door. They all look up at me.
“Tim,” one of them says. “We have an important investment opportunity we’d like to speak to you about.” His expression is inscrutable.
“What is it?” I say. He looks at the others as if he is about to vouchsafe a tremendous secret.
“The Jacruizzi,” he says.
“The what?” I say.
“A uniquely relaxing way to get from A to B,” another says.
“Is it basically a taxi with a Jacuzzi in it?” I say.
“Yes,” the oldest one says.
“But the branding is gonna be really strong,” the first friend says. I sense I am being sported with, but I still feel the need to ask an intelligent question, because I am a businessman.
“What happens when you drive up a steep hill?” I say. The oldest one’s friend thinks for a bit.
“We just won’t go that way,” he says.
“I’m in,” I say.
