It is ten past eight on a Monday morning. MindReader and I have had breakfast together on a weekday for the first time in 18 months.
I walk up Church street, past the cathedral and through the flower beds. I had almost forgotten what the early-morning air was like. Somehow crisper, almost autumnal-feeling. I draw my cardigan tighter around myself.
“Billygean?” a voice says.
“Oh – hi!” I say.
It is OldLawFriend. She was in my year, and now she’s a lawyer, evidentially on her way to the office for 8:15am.
“You’re looking well!” she says, and I smirk.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Are you – you know – basically all better now?”
I squint into the sun. I am on my way to BathShop for the second 8.30am shift this weekend. I do not feel great, but, at the moment, I am doing it, and, as MindReader says, I should actually be quite proud of having just the one job let alone two (I work from home for a law firm. Go me!)
“Basically,” I say. “It took 18 months.”
“Congratulations,” she says.
We chat some more, about non-contentious probate and a department of personal damages. And then I go sort my soaps out for the customers and smile slightly.
