BOOK BROWSING

He always had the same routine. He read little bits all over town. He started in the public library first, then the charity shops, then the second-hand bookshops and finally, the corporate bookstore and coffee shop for a sit down and a good read. By then, he’d had enough of fragmentation and was desperate to follow a plot.

He found one sandwiched between Tom Sharpe and Alan Sillitoe. It was about a factory worker from Burton-upon-Trent who went down, or was it up, to Cambridge to read classics and fill up the working class quota.

“It’s all Greek to me lads,” he would quip to his old factory pals, “Even the bits in Latin.”

They thought him a strange fish for leaving the pond, but were oddly proud of one of theirs doing what one of that lot usually did.

Cambridge life itself was less dour and had more comedic value. The dramatic tension of class conflict gave way to high jinx, young gents pranks and bow ties.

Moustachioed by frothy coffee, he looked at her and then quickly wiped his upper lip as he registered her strawberry blonde loveliness. Flashing white teeth. Smooth skin. And her South Walian lilt left him breathless. He hyperventilated into his paper bag before he could speak to her. She waited as if it was the most naturalistic thing in the world.

He was ashamed of his ugly, rough North Walian brogue, so asked if they could switch to English.

- Of course. Can I fetch you another coffee, bach?

- Call me Dai. Yes, that’d great.

- I’m Rhian.

Coffees bought. Dialogue ensued.

-Is this your first? she asked.

- Oh no. He’s used me quite a few times before. You?

- First time, as far as I know. He tends to avoid pretty young things in case he comes over all mid-life crisis like a French movie.

Three months later they were married. It lasted one month longer than the Angolan civil war. He was his MPLA to her UNITA. Their divorce was a model of compromise. Rhian got the house, the car and oil reserves. Dai got first dibs on inward investment, shipping and all the CDs.

Building up their infrastructure in time for the Chinese Communist Party’s 17th congress was a priority. But first they needed a tagline. China was after all the planet’s most successful capitalist country. They wouldn’t go for just any old slogan these days. Blood diamond mines are a girl’s best friend was mooted.

Too random. The usual problem.

He put down the story and picked up his £2.49 latte machiatto.