ALT Mother often tells me that hold-ups are a gauntlet thrown at karma. They are Judas-in-silk, where you think you'll get a kiss but really they're just waiting to betray you. "Mother," I laugh, as I pat her head and put her in a box labelled Cynical Things, "I've worn them at galas, I've worn them on the Tube, I've met the Poet Laureate whilst wearing them (askew). I'm much too old to listen when you tell me what to do." So when he called I fished them out and glazed my flanks like an amateur chef, then sank on the bed to let them rest and played the drums on my bored little breasts, oh Mother- I didn't think it through. I walked to the station and halfway there they started to slip to God knows where, yes they threw up their hands as though clothes felt despair, and curled in a heap at my shoes. Then I saw the guy, all six-foot-fine, before I could duck his eyes met mine, so I panicked and ran past the 'No Pick-Up' sign. How I wish that this tale was untrue.