The Shadow and I.

The oft-empty house was again last night, so I took off to the local village and ordered a pizza.

It was late, already night, so I asked if they had finished – there was an air of clearing up about the young woman’s movement, but she said no and silently started to add tomato paste to pizza base.

There was a newspaper on the counter, the day’s, so I stood there and turned the pages; the French Rugby team in the doldrums at the rugby world cup, Toulouse football team having a bad week and The Arsenal football coach looking sad.

The baking pizza smelt good.

The streets were empty.

Only me.

They asked me if I wanted it cut, I said yes, they asked, four? Six? I said eight.

I could have said one.