Met the Squaddie for afternoon tea. Turns out he works in Regents Place, which is a strange business park at the top of Tottenham Court Road. It's a surprisingly desolate rain-soaked tundra. Smokers were huddled under statues, ducking as sodden copies of London Lite howled past.
We found a Starbucks. It was full of vile business people having meetings with that smug air of "But look! We're having a meeting in Starbucks! Isn't that exciting?" No.
The Squaddie dropped his thick Scottish accent when he ordered ("The lassie doesn't get me,"), and we sat down next to two posh boy students talking about cafetieres.
It was about five minutes before I realised what was wrong. The Squaddie was wearing a suit. A really nice suit.
We sat watching the rain pound across the courtyard outside, and he sighed, and told me all about how he used to run a skiing lodge in the Alps. "It was a great quality of life. Skiing to work every morning. Great. Until I fell out with my German bird. They're so argumentative." I stil don't know if he meant birds or Germans. But every time I meet him, he gets more complicated.