Adderall

Friends in Calais invited me to their baby’s birthday party. He’s a year old. They suggested an overnight stay and I planned to reach France by about mid-afternoon and have a stroll, visit the sights, buy a bit of tat for the nipper and a litre of plonk for the proud parents. Clouds of sweet diesel vapour enveloped me. My pulse quickened. In the 1970s, it all smelt like this The morning express sped me south and I was entertained on board by the Bing-Bong Pixie who referred to the train as ‘this 10.02 service from London Victoria to Dover Priory’. She recited the name of every stop on the line and repeated it twice each time we reached a new station. Her chirpy tone concealed a rather malevolent side.

‘Like being chained to a lunatic.’ That’s how a man feels in relation to his libido. And the lunatic latches on to anything, irrationally, and without warning. In Cambridge recently I dropped into a lecture given by a beautiful historian, Lea Ypi, from Albania, whose discourse included this observation about revolutionaries: ‘Once they attain power they lose all interest in revolution.’ Good point. Her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders absorbed far more of my attention than her political reflections and I was desperate to speak to her afterwards, but I had no way to orchestrate a meeting. She raised one eyebrow at me suggestively.