He cut through it, halving it, revealing the glisten inside, then chewed the sweet juice of the sections he’d sliced and raised his plate for the sip. The few seeds were all that had lessened the perfection. People argue about which are the best novels, he thought. I’d like to know where to get the best navels.

He settled in at his desk, his dictionary to hand, thinking, Where would I be without it? Gavelling to a start his proofreading day, he rapped the rubbish-bin rim with his pencil sharpener, emptying yesterday’s remaining blue shavings. Then, with poised blue pencil, and ruler under the words, he whisperedly, expertly, read...

From his desk, Tris could see that the grey had given way to pillow-white billows and some nearly spring sun. A gossamer of spider web – his wind gauge – bobbed around on the outside of his window. He could hear chirping singing thingies cheering the blue – sweet peppering the air with their squawks.

... he was addicted to his game – to the roll and clatter of the dice; to the recording of the totals. He’d wondered if it was like other addictions, that were within arm’s reach and so predictably pleasurable that they were almost impossible to resist…

He saw the clock tower. Did it stand out like a sore thumb today, like a conifer in suburbia?

In a crumpled white napkin he saw Banno’s face – his receding hairline, his longish nose. Was there sadness in the face? Tris closed his eyes, and when he opened them he could still see the face.

Walking down Galileo Court, Sam saw the plate-glass library frontage and went in.

Tris followed him inside. There were a few people there, but like always, the place had a hollow feel. Johnny’s would never have that warm hubbub of a stylish café.

He stopped in at Frank’s. The walls were hung with paintings of the English flag. Some were realistic, almost photographic, but a few looked like they were rippling in the breeze and others were torn and tattered and not red, white and blue any more, as if they’d been shredded in battle. It all looked more artistic than patriotic.

‘And at outside basketball courts,’ the man continued, ‘you often see hoops without nets. Maybe they’re not so rich.’

‘Right. So, how else can you tell an American from an Englishman?’

He’d once read about a paranoid Roman emperor whose daily walks were in a gallery lined with polished moonstone that reflected everything behind him. For himself, Tris wished he just had a rear-view mirror… He did like looking back, as if he’d just seen the Lone Ranger and was thinking ‘Who was that masked man?’

She tried to think of a colour that had looked and sounded new when it first came out. Tiffany Blue, from a hundred years before. And there were those colours that caught people’s attention with their distinctiveness, like the Le Creuset orange.