Too inconsistent to be called a true friend
I am home from Africa, from the southern summer of hot days and big skies and afternoon thunder storms when hailstones the size of golf balls can dent the car or the head. Home to Heathrow full of festive travellers and the year stumbling blindly to its end.
There is a knock on the door. A delivery man in a Santa hat is standing there with a Fortnum and Mason hamper in his arms. His name is Munir and he comes from a land of high deserts. We meet on a morning when London is buried under low cloud and Brexit anxiety. But Munir is smiling and I am astonished. I did not order a hamper from one of London's most elite stores and cannot think of anybody who would have sent me one.
"I can assure you it is for you, sir," says Munir, pointing to the name and address, which are undeniably mine.