The Right Question
‘People always ask the wrong questions.’ A cloud of beer breath enveloped me and I looked up to see a typical Friday night lager jockey. Six pints in, tie askew, sweaty, aging skin loose and jowly. Washed up on my table, spun into me by a social eddy, pushed loose from his office friends by a strange current in the busiest pub in London. He looked down at me, searching for comprehension in my eyes. ‘And then they get the wrong answers,’ he continued, his logical emphatic. There seemed to be...