Sheffield and Jeff Bernstein

Waking up on Kate's sofa and feeling rough wasn't the best preparation for another visit to the pervy contact lens fitter. I bleared through it in pain, but I knew before I'd left the store that contacts weren't for me. Not now, at least.





A 42 to Stockport, train to Sheffield and 52 bus later, I was back on a stomping ground of old, the ever-fair Crookes. The Mason's Arms, where I'd worked for two good years after my undergraduate degree, had closed down. Ugly metal boards covered over the windows and doors. I felt sad.

Jeff was his normal manic self. When had I last seen him? Two years ago? More maybe. Since I moved to Manchester? Yes, I think so. But I can't recall the particular time. He was amazed that I'd been to the Jewish Museum for my birthday. He was even more amazed when I gave him a driedel as a gift. Amanda was in fine form. She and I realised the driedel was lop-sided, but that this was best for the game as a whole. You can't always have people winning the whole pot, I guess. Is there a lesson there?