He looked surprised at my question, and there was a pause before he answered.
“Aye, it was OK,” he said. Articulate as ever. This was going to be hard work.
“Were the other singers of a similar standard to...” I paused and pretended to wrack my brains “... to Johnnie Lomond?”
“They were all right, I guess,” he said, shrugging. Such insight, such clear, descriptive prose.
Bernadette piped up, as I knew she would, unable to resist an opportunity to draw attention to herself by any means available.
“I know him, Johnnie Lomond,” she told me proudly. “He used to be pals with my brother, at school.”
“Really?” I said, not, for once, having to feign interest. “Which school was that?”
The way she said the name of the establishment implied that I ought to be aware of it.
I tried to look impressed. “Are they still friends?” I asked, stirring my tea again.
“Not really,” she said. “He came to Paul’s wedding, but I think they drifted apart after that.
You know what it’s like—when you’re married with kids,
you sort of lose touch with your single pals, don’t you? You don’t have that much in common anymore...”
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