Our conversation on the phone is stilted like always. “I can’t talk right now,” I tell her. I cannot deal with Charlotte; the fuzzy static voice of her mobile in one ear, the low green rumble of my refrigerator in the other. I think I’m losing all sense of reality.

”I want meat I want meat I want meat.” The fridge’s chanting gets louder.

“You’ll get bloody meat,” I scream. The mantra gets faint in my head but is still there. Insistent.

“Is this about the restaurant last night?” Charlotte’s voice returns with a crackle. My hands grip the steering wheel like I’m having a seizure. My eyes sting from the warm air de-misting the windscreen.

“No no, the restaurant last night, no. I can’t talk right now. I’ll call you later.” As I click the END CALL button I hear her trying to shriek the last word. Again the chanting of the fridge rises in my brain. Cool and crisp.

“I want meat I want meat I want meat.”