“And could I interest you in some dessert?…” asks the waiter.
“Erm.. okay, go on then” I reply, feigning a momentary hesitation as though dessert hasn’t even crossed my mind when, to be honest, it’s the main reason I’m even here.
Of course, the waiter probably sees through my little charade, my phony tango of will-I-won’t-I; he’s seen it all before. In fact, of the two of us, it is I who ends up being deceived – for what I’m yet to realise is that I’m not really here for the pudding, but for the past…
