Cycling home tonight up the steep Avenue Simon Bolivar, I got beeped at by a scooter.
‘Yes, it’s hard work on a bike,’ I said, smiling.
‘You don’t remember me,’ said my old cavist from when I lived at the bottom of the hill in the 10th.
‘But of course,’ I replied to his helmet. ‘How are you? I live in the 20th now. That’s why I’ve not been in recently.’
“I saw you on the television,’ he said. ‘You wrote a book.’
‘Yes,’ I said delighted.
‘Congratulations. It’s a tough ride up to the 20th. Good luck.’
‘Thanks – and buy the book,’ I said to him as he blasted away from me up the hill.
That’s just one of the wonderful little memories that make writing a book worthwhile.