It was the darkest, coldest night of the year, and I ran out of milk halfway through writing a serious column about terrorist violence and the machinery of populist hate. I require copious amounts of tea when writing about that sort of thing, so I popped out to the shops. And that, friends and readers, is how I ended up having sushi with the enemy.
I had, of course, remembered my keys, but forgotten to remember that I no longer live behind the door those particular keys open. I was locked out, and it would be hours before anyone else was home, and I had a pint of milk, a roll of lavatory paper and a dead phone. I decided to go to the Japanese restaurant down the road to see how long I could string out a bowl of noodles.