Paul Wheeler

Losing the Plot

1998. Phoenix, 1999.

Queen Mary's Gardens were still in gloriously prime condition for early October...There were several benches around the central water fountain, each occupied by one person. It's an unwritten English rule that you never choose one already occupied. Even with three feet of space in between, you are invading someone's privacy or, more probably, making them nervous that you're a flasher. Far better to walk endlessly about, even if your feet are blistering, than act like either a foreigner or a pervert

The narrator manages to find an empty bench, but then a young man sits down at the other end.

Not having anything to read, I stared ahead. He crossed and uncrossed his legs a few times before placing an arm upon the back of the bench. I lifted my chin and gave the sky a panning shot that ended a couple of feet above his head. He was smiling.
"Nice, innit?"
English? Speaking to a stranger? Oh, shit, that can mean only one thing

Anxious to get rid of the young man (he's arranged to meet a colleague here, so can't move away), the narrator has to continue the conversation but gives a false name, James.

"They call you James or Jim?"
Thank God I never forget a good comic routine. Rowan Atkinson, was it?
"No," I said. "Most people call me sir."
"Sir?"
"Those of a lesser rank. Senior Officers use my full title. Chief Superintendent Pinkerton, Regional Vice Squad."
His hand left mine and his body left the bench. There are moments when it pays to possess total recall of trivia