Asks me if I am the owner. Tells me she likes our t-shirts.
Tells me that she wants to discuss something with me.
I adopt the *crash position* for yet another self-published something. But no.
I've been working on a project, she tells me. I've been fucking up books. Really fucking them up, she says.
Ripping them apart and fucking them up good and proper.
Have you? I say.
I have, she says enthusiastically. Really ripping them apart.
But tell me, she adds, does that sound like something you might be interested in?
Very possibly, I say.
This is excellent news, she tells me. Really excellent news.
There is a twinkle in her eye.
I consider the Waitrose trail mix that I have been eating at the till, and wonder if perhaps it has some unadvertised halucinogenic properties.