Did you know Saint Patrick is a dragon? Crow Patrick, a white stone dragon who carries a shamrock above his head and walks with an ash stick. We met him on a mountain. As he walked toward us I saw his wake like a bullet’s wake. When he spoke, the same – his words made ripples in the air. He wanted to kiss me, but I knew that was to be avoided because I would be burnt.

Katie kissed me goodbye on her way to the hairdresser, gave me a lozenge for my throat. Then she waded around to the other side of the bar, where John Coates was sitting (‘Who’s John Coates again?’ ‘You remember John Coates, he’s famous.’ 'Didn’t I go to college with his brother?’ 'Cousin.’ 'Oh.’), waves lapping his ankles. I understood implicitly I wasn’t to join them, so I hovered in the entryway, felt the wood grain on the wainscotting, watched them speaking, but couldn’t hear their voices above the incoming tide.

On the way home I didn’t ask what they’d talked about. The bus driver was sipping whisky from a flask and swerving down the street, clipping parked cars, but the other passengers told me not to confront him. The driver didn’t notice a man standing at a bus stop, and the man threw himself angrily against the side of the bus when it passed. Katie and I got off near city hall. The driver laughed when I told him I was gonna report him.