On Women, Dogs and Bite.

One of these days I must tell the story of Mistress Catherine Simms. It’s a powerful tale of lust, finely judged romantic stratagem, rank opportunism, ego-destruction, the discovery of a magical potion, abandonment, and ultimately guilt (on my part strangely enough, since it was my ego which suffered the destructive assault.)

But not right now. Right now I’m sampling the first of my bottles of extra strong Guinness to which I referred a few nights ago. It tastes like one of those hard sticks of liquorice juice, only more bitter. Or should that be bitterer? Word says it should, but it looks wrong and sounds silly. In any event, it has more ‘bite’ than normal Guinness.

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I’m learning to read dogs’ eyes. There was one sitting outside Sainsbury’s today that was looking at me with eyes that seemed to say ‘I dislike human strangers. Don’t come any closer.’ I held out a hand tentatively just in case I was wrong, and he lifted his lip on one side. Point taken.

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And the man in Costa Coffee asked me whether I would like to try the new blend of espresso they use for Americano. He said it had the same concentration of caffeine, but was smoother with less bite. I said I’d stay traditional and take the bite. I like bite. The young woman who is used to my weekly visits had prepared the brew anyway, and she refused to look at me as usual. I don’t know what I’ve done to offend her, but it must be something. I decided against holding out a tentative hand.