Outside my house, an old Indian man is wandering up and down the street slowly, darting back to our house. We’re watching him. He’s definitely in the weirdo category. We leave the house for dinner. He stops and walks up to me just at the end of the drive.
His eyes are red and tear-strewn, he walks with a lean over to his left side like it’s boneless.
‘Are you a Gujarati?’
‘Yes I am.’
‘I’m looking for Ashok Shah’s house. He lives in Wood Green somewhere but I’m forgotten where. Do you know where he lives? He is Gujarati too.’
‘I can’t believe I’ve forgotten. Sorry.’
He limps off.