After the newspaper has been put to bed, I go home to a child not yet asleep. Or perhaps she woke up when she heard me come in.
I'm starving. I want a couple of cheese sticks and a glass of cheap wine.
"Read to me," she says. The kid is almost old enough to start going to community college.
"Ok," I say. I bring the wine, the cheese sticks and she hands me a self-help book for women, a 200-page pep talk on how to be smart and happy. The BBC's fast chatter on blood-soaked coups and soccer scores bubbles nonstop from her radio.
"Get in my bed and read to me."
The kid is as tall as I am.
I'll read to her until the world ends and we fall asleep.