It is last week, when I was slightly less tired, and MindReader and I are watching OldTutor’s play.
OldTutor rescued me from the throes of a 2:2 in my final year and did not smirk at the waterproof bag I wore over my operating foot in the rain. He is a Very Calm Buddhist. Consequently, I, of course, become more neurotic around him.
He approaches us in the interval.
“OldTutor, this is MindReader,” I say, “and vice versa.” They shake hands, and I feel MindReader watching me.
“The play’s really good!” I say, waving the large paper program. OldTutor gazes across the stage, silent for a moment. Finally he clasps his hands together.
“Good, I’m glad” he says, nodding slowly. “And how are you?”
This question becomes increasingly difficult to answer. How much information do people want? My glands hurt too much to shave? It hurts to pee? I haven’t poo’d for a week? Where do you stop?
“I’m fine,” I say, waving a hand. “I’m sat down.”
He laughs.
We talk about whether I understand the play. His essays, the actors.
He taps me on the shoulder as part, heading towards the bar.
I turn to MindReader. “Well!” I say.
“What?” he says, his blue eyes wide.
“Do you like him?”
“Yes, he seems very calm.”
“Yes he is. And didn’t I do well! Not too much neuroses.”
MindReader stares at me for a moment. And then he slowly removes the program from my fingers.
You know, the one I had apparently folded and folded and folded into a tiny square and finally ripped into tiny bits whilst having a perfectly non-neurotic conversation.
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