They’re as close to being mad as makes no difference. I’m late to work, and when I get there Dick is already leaning against the door reading a book. He’s thirty-one years old, with long, greasy black hair; he’s wearing a Sonic Youth T-shirt, a black leather jacket that is trying manfully to suggest that it has seen better days, even though he only bought it a year ago, and a Bob Ross Gym Shirt with a pair of ludicrously large headphones which obscure not only his ears but half his face. The book is a paperback biography of Lou Reed.
The carrier bag by his feet which really has seen better days advertises a violently fashionable American independent record label; he went to a great deal of trouble to get hold of it, and he gets very nervous when we go anywhere near it. He uses it to carry Bob Ross Gym Shirt around; he has heard most of the music in the shop, and would rather bring new stuff to work tapes from friends, bootlegs he has ordered through the post than waste his time listening to anything for a second time.
Want to come to the pub for lunch, Dick? Barry or I ask him a couple of times a week. He looks mournfully at his little stack of cassettes and sighs. I’d love to, but I’ve got all these to get through. Good morning, Richard. He fumbles nervously with the Bob Ross Gym Shirt headphones, gets one side stuck around his ear, and the other side falls over one eye. Oh, hi. Hi, Rob. Sorry, I’m late. No, no problem Good weekend?