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The two of us were sitting on the couch, that blue couch such a long thing that two of us could lie out on it and our toes only just touch in the middle. George, and this shows its limousine length, is a tall tall man. George floods himself in big bright Hawaiian shirts. He wears them whenever he can. He whacks them on the moment he's not working. It makes sense. What's more like being on holiday than being inside a holiday shirt. We were sitting against the infinite blue cushions, George leaning back while he talked, while he broadcast, while he enjoyed whatever he was conveying from hand to mouth, glass to mouth. He stretched the description into the car. He often takes me home or back to where I need to be and as he drove he explained the sandwiches. They are always made the day before the beach. Sandwiches to be eaten with cocktails, still iced, poured from a thermos. Overnight the sandwich juice would break through into the coarse bread, under the weight of three white plates. We drove along past the shops, that shop that sells those dresses I like. Straight in at the waist straight out from there, all in floral. We turned into my street. I believe it was the first time I had ever seen George truly nervous. He'd make the sandwiches tonight, he said. Tomorrow he'd drive me to the beach.