Desiring Cairo. Louisa Young

killed them because they hate Islam and want no Muslim man in your royal family. I say bollocks.’ At the same time as I was amused by his finding so soon the grosser end of our lovely language, and pronouncing it like the young bull he so reminded me of, I could see the sincerity of his distaste.

       SEVEN

       Brighton

      The next day, Saturday, there were two letters. One contained a razor blade, the other a poem.

      Distracting is the foliage of my pasture

      The mouth of my girl is a lotus bud

      Her breasts are mandrake apples

      Her arms are vines

      Her eyes are fixed like berries

      Her brow a snare of willow

      And I the wild goose!

      My beak snips her hair for bait,

      As worms for bait in the trap.

      I knew this poem. Not that it’s famous, out of its field. It’s from an ancient papyrus. It’s, I don’t know, three thousand years old. I didn’t like it – I’d never liked it. Hair as worms, bait in a trap. Ugly. Violent. Fixed berries, vines, snares. It speaks to me of desire and resentment – a bad combination.

      And a razor blade.

      How very unpleasant.

      Each one gave me a cold shudder. I didn’t know, actually, which was nastier.

      I burnt the poem and broke the blade in half with a pair of pliers, then wrapped it in cotton wool, soaked the package in baby oil and threw it in the rubbish, which I then took out on to the balcony and dropped – plop! – into the wheelie bin seven storeys below. I’m pretty ritualistic on occasion.