Richard

Waiting for the lift in a converted tea factory with some friends, we are approached by a man a floppy grey parting.  His face is pointy and his voice is a bit like that of the actor Bill Nighy.  'Have you ever been anywhere like this before?' he says.  'It's like Andy Warhol's fucking art factory'.  He is wearing a bright blue anorak with white chinos over white loafers.  When speaking he holds his hand to his breastbone.  I ask if he knows any of the artists.  He nods and mumbles something uncommitted.  The lift arrives.

As the doors shut and over a crowd of faces I explain my resolution.  'Is it really?' he asks.  'Yes', I say.  The lift descends and I tell him that his middle is my first.  He asks for the rest of my name.  I tell him.  He talks of an industrial town south of London.  We reach the ground floor.

'What are you up to now?' he asks.  I say that I am probably heading home.  'I thought you might at least invite me for a drink', he says.  'I feel used'.  I apologise.  'I feel like a discarded fucking condom flung to the side when it's served its purpose'.  We are in the way of someone's photograph.  We move.  I tell him that I didn't mean to use him.  'Yeah well', he says.

I thank him for his help and move away.