I lay there for a while, trying to work out the best way to 181.

deal with this. The best way to deal with it would be to kill myself, but the second best way is going to involve a great deal of grovelling and pleading and self-mockery, so I start to get dressed, to get it over with, when there's a knock at the door.

It's Alice, looking sombre, as well she might. Does she know that her naked mother thinks I attempted to seduce her?

'h.e.l.lo, sleeping beauty . . .' she whispers.

'Alice, I am so, so sorry about last night . . .'

'Oh, G.o.d, that's all right, it's nothing, forget about it . . .' She obviously doesn't know. 'Look, Brian, something's come up, I've got to go to Bournemouth . . .' She's sat at the edge of the bed, and it looks like she's going to cry.

'Why, what's happened?'

'It's Granny Harbinson, she fell downstairs late last night, and she's in hospital, with a fractured hip, and we've got to go and see her . . .'

'Oh, G.o.d, Alice . . .'

'Mum and Dad have already gone, but I've got to follow on, so I don't think New Year's going to work out, I'm afraid.'

'Oh, that's okay. I'll find out the times of the . . .'

'Already done it. There's a train to London in forty-five minutes, I'll give you a lift to the station. Is that okay?'

And so I start to pack, cramming books and clothes in my bag like it's an emergency evacuation, and in ten minutes we're in the Land-Rover, with Alice driving. She looks tiny behind the wheel, like a Sindy doll driving an Action Man jeep. The snow has turned to a dirty grey slush in the night, and we seem to be driving much too fast, which all just contributes to the general air of tension and anxiety.

'I have a terrible headache today!' I offer.

The too,' she replies.

Two hundred yards of country lane go by.

'I ran into your mum and dad in the kitchen last night,' I say, nonchalantly.

182.

'Oh, really!'

Another two hundred yards.

'Did they say anything about it?'

'Not really. No. Why should they?'

'No reason.' I'm safe it seems. Obviously I'm not glad Granny Harbinson fell down the stairs, but at least she's created a diversion.

We arrive at the station with fifteen minutes to spare, and she helps me carry my bag on to the empty platform.

I'm so sorry you can't stay for New Year.'

'Oh, that's all right. Send my love to Granny Harbinson.' What for? I've never even met the woman for Christ's sake. 'And I'm really sorry about overdosing on you last night.'

'Really, that's fine. Look, d'you mind if I don't wait for you to get the train? It's just I should get going . . .' And we embrace, but don't kiss, and then she's gone.

I get home at about teatime, and let myself in. Mum's dressed in her track-suit and is lying on the sofa in the lounge watching Blockbusters on full volume, with an ashtray balanced on her belly, a bucket of Quality Street and a bottle of Tia Maria on the coffee table in front of her. As I come into the room she sits up and stuffs the bottle under a cushion, then realises she's left the sherry gla.s.s of Tia Maria out, and tries to conceal it by wrapping both hands around it, like it's a tiny mug of cocoa or something.

'You're back early!'

'Yes, Mum, I know . . .'

Till take a P, Bob . . .'

'What's up, then?'

'Alice's nan fractured her hip.'

'How did that happen?'

'I pushed her downstairs.'

'No, really.'

'I've no idea, Mum.'

183.

'Which P is the main chemical ingredient in the manufacture of matches?'

'Poor thing. Is she going to be all right?'

'How should I know? I'm not the doctor-in-charge, am I? Phosphorous.'

'Correct.'

'What?' says Mum.

'The telly!' I snap.

Till take an H please, Bob 'Something wrong, Bri?'

'No, nothing's wrong!'

'Which H gave his name to the . . . ?'

'Did you fall out with your girlfri . . . ?'

'She is not my girlfriend!'

'All right, no need to shout!'

'Bit early for c.o.c.ktails, isn't it, Mother?'

And then I turn and run upstairs, feeling seedy and mean. And where did that nasty, peevish 'Mother' come from? I've never called her 'Mother'. I go to my room, slam the door, lie on my bed and put on my headphones to listen to my ca.s.sette copy of Lionheart, Kate Bush's staggeringly beautiful second alb.u.m, 'Symphony in Blue', side A, track one. But almost immediately I realise something's missing.

The Cold Meats.

I left the parcel of cold meat in the kitchen drawer last night. I don't have the Harbinsons' Bournemouth number, so I decide to phone the cottage and leave a message for when Alice gets back. After four rings the answering-machine clicks on, and I'm just working out what to say, when someone unexpectedly picks up.

'h.e.l.lo . . . ?'

'Oh. h.e.l.lo, is that ... is that Rose?'

'Who is this?'

'It's Brian, Alice's friend?'

'Oh, h.e.l.lo, Brian. Hold on, will you.'

184.

There's a rustling noise, as she puts her hand over the receiver, and some vague mumbling, and then Alice comes on.

'h.e.l.lo, Brian?'

'Hi! You're still there!'

'Yes, yes, we're here.'

'Only I thought you'd be in Bournemouth . . .'

'We were, but . . . then it turned out Granny was feeling much better, so we drove back. We've just got in, actually.'

'Right. So she's okay then?'

'She's absolutely fine!'

'No fractured hip?'

'No, just bad bruising, and, um, shock.'

'Good. I'm glad to hear it. Well, not glad that she's in shock, obviously, I mean I'm glad it's not life-threatening . . .'

There's a silence.

'So ... ?'

'So I just meant to say, I left the . . . um, the, you know, cold meat there.'

'I see. And where is this . . . meat?'

'In the drawer of the kitchen table.'

'Oh. Right. I'll go and get it.'

'Wait till your mum's not around though, maybe?'

'Of course.'

'So - see you back at college next year, then?'

'Exactly. See you next year!' And she's gone, and I just stand there in the hallway, the telephone receiver in my hand, staring into s.p.a.ce.

I can hear the telly in the lounge.

'Which It's three laws accurately describe the motion of the planets around the sun?'

'Johannes Kepler,' I say, to no one at all.

'Correct!'

I have absolutely no idea what I'm meant to do now.

185.

22.

QUESTION Finding its origins in the 31-syllable 'tanka', which j.a.panese poetic form consists of 17 syllables, arranged in lines of 5, 7 and 57 ANSWER The haiku Rebecca Epstein's response is to laugh. She lies on my futon in the student house on Richmond Hill, and laughs and laughs, kicking her Doc Martens with s.a.d.i.s.tic glee.

'It's not that funny, Rebecca.'

'Och, no, trust me, it is.'

I give up, and go and change the record.

I'm sorry, Jackson, but it's just the idea of them all hiding in the woodshed until you've definitely gone . . .' This sets her off again, so I decide to go into Josh's room and get more home-brewed beer.

I'm with Mum for another eighteen hours before I decide to go back to college. Once again, I tell her it's because I need some specialist books from the library, and she shrugs, only half-believing, and by ten o'clock, I'm on the doorstep again, rejecting the same groceries.

On the train back, I start to cheer up a bit. So what if I'm spending New Year alone in a student house? I can get some work done, read, go for long walks, play music as loud as I want. And tomorrow, on New Year's Eve, I'll fight the ridiculous tradition that says we have to go out and get drunk and have fun. I'll stay in instead, and not have fun. I'll still 186.

get drunk but I'll read a book, and fall asleep at 11.58 p.m. That'll teach them, I convince myself, without really knowing who 'they' are.

But as soon as I arrive back at the student house, I realise I've made a terrible mistake. As I open the front door, a waft of warm, yeasty gas from Marcus and Joshua's home-brew Yorkshire Bitter hits me, and it's as if the whole house had just burped in my face. I go into Joshua's room, and find the plastic barrel bubbling and hissing near a fully-on radiator. I open the window to let some of the intestinal gas out.

No one's back yet, obviously, which is what I'd hoped, but I don't think I was prepared for the house to be quite this empty. So I decide to go to the mini-market on the corner. It's 5.45, the optimum time for buying reduced-price food.

The purchase of reduced-price food isn't something one should enter into lightly. The dented canned goods are generally safe, but with 'fresh' produce, frankly it's a minefield. As a general rule of thumb, the degree to which the price is reduced is proportional to the danger involved in actually eating it, so the trick is to go for something that's still a bargain without actually giving you stomach cramps; a measly lOp off a pound of blue-grey braising steak is hardly worth the risk, but a whole chicken for 25p is just asking for trouble. Also beef and chicken are generally safer than pork and fish. Old pork is no fun for anyone, whereas with old beef you can at least kid yourself that it's not 'off, it's just 'well-hung'. The same applies to strongly flavoured foods; it's not 'off, it's 'spicy'. It is for this reason that the curry is in many ways the cla.s.sic reduced-price item.

In the mini-market, me and an old lady with a Zapata moustache eye each other warily over the chill cabinet. As it's so soon after Christmas there are a great many lethal turkeys here, as well as a leg of lamb which looks as if it's in danger of climbing out of the chill cabinet and walking back to the farm by itself. Generally it's a pretty disappointing haul, so I decide to go for the dehydrated Vesta curry, at 75 pence off 187.