I love this little stretch of canal, Glasson Dock at one end with its basin full of yachts, rigs rap-rapping against a forest of masts, the rank smell of fertilizer unloading on the quay, salmon and kippers and cheese in the Smokehouse beyond. And towards the other, Thurnham Mill, unaccountably secluded on a weekday, just the place for a discreet rendezvous.

I've not seen him yet - mustn't look - but I know he is there.

I go through my mental checklist for the umpteenth time. I'm buttoned up, up to the neck, collar raised, belt tugged tight and tied. I musn't take my hands out of my pockets - I know he's watching me now, ticking off the points for himself - or I would be going through the list with a million little touches of my hand. Rubber against my knuckles (chill quite gone, warm now and sticky-damp), I clench my fists in nervous frustration. And I sort of shudder inside my mac, skin and rubber lining kissing up and down my arms, my front, my back, legs and thighs. Nothing so fleeting as a kiss at the waist of course, where the belt, cinching me tight rings the skin with unforgiving pressure, moisture and heat.

9/10 he tells me later: that's really good.

He didn't tell me then what it was that lost me that vital mark, though I can see it now. As usual I just got told the score.

And what the settlement was to be.

H.

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