As the plane begins to pick up speed on the runway I discover, with some horror, a loose molar. We soar into the sky at an incredible angle and I work the tooth out with worrying ease. A woman and an Alsatian are sat beside me. The woman wears tweed and is sleeping. The dog has a wise face, so I show it my tooth.
M. Deadman’s dog, a scruffy pup named Dead Dog, has emptied my bag beneath the table while MD and I speak in The Left Luggage. “Oh, he’s eaten your book,” she says. “I’m so sorry.” The cover of D. Johnson’s Train Dreams is shredded. I am more amused than annoyed and I say, “It was signed.”
“Good boy,” she says. Dead Dog and I are smiling.
C. Piper has too many dogs. They run circles around the kitchen, snapping at the next dog’s tail. She opens the cutlery drawer and it is filled with wriggling puppies. CP holds her hands to her head and I put a puppy in each pocket.