In the kitchen the flat-mate watches TV. A woman picks over an awards ceremony. Her post-mortem is brutal. She knows which dresses killed, which celebrities slayed.
I try not to watch but spot her almost immediately. She of the face that launched a thousand neuroses. I can’t resist airing the most treacherous compliment I’ve ever received.
‘A man in a bar told me I look like her.’
The flat-mate turns, squints and cackles.
'No such luck, mate.'
It’s the 'mate' that does for me.