A Certain Age by Lynne Truss Read Free Book Online

straight up, but with a crucial last-minute kick in the direction of travel.”
    “Well, doing a few portraits won’t kill you,” he said. [
Kippo doesn’t understand it himself
] “Seven mediums,” he said. “It’s for the magazine. Juliet Frampton’s doing seven interviews, and they want a pic for each one. Hang on, I’ll ring the mag.” He reached for the phone while I just stood there, rolling my eyes and hoping he’d suddenly think of someone better suited to the job. “David?” hesaid. “Jimmy Kipling, picture desk. These seven mediums of Juliet’s. Yeah, I got your list of addresses. Yeah, got a great bloke here. Mark King, you know him? Good. You’ll have seen loads of his stuff, he’s been on the paper for, what?” [
He’s asking Mark; Mark has to think about it; a bit astonished
] “Twenty years,” I said. “Twenty-five years,” he said. “What? [
Lying
] Yeah, Marko’s VERY sensitive, yeah. Very. Very, what’s the word – [
a prompt from the mag man
] what? Oh yes, that’s right, intuitive, yes. And if you need any specialist jumping done at the same time, incidentally, he’s your man. Anyway, just one question. This word mediums. Shouldn’t that be media? Oh. Coz I’ve been trying to visualise. What’s a medium then? Oh. Oh, I see, I’ll call you back, then, cheers.” He turns to me. “Er, Marko, you’re going to do seven very sensitive and intuitive portrait photographs of psychics. In between your normal jobs, of course. And the first one’s this afternoon in Hackney.”
    I gave him one of my looks. Although I don’t know why I bothered because my looks have never had an effect on anyone. At home, when I was little, I’d do one of my looks and everyone else would laugh like drains. [
A happy memory; he loved his dad
] My dad used to fall off his chair, the bastard. “Jill’d be good for this, Kippo,” I said. “Or even the Giant Padster, if you can spare him from Cheltenham. I mean, seen one photo finish, you’ve seen ’em all.” Kippo looked at the list. “Tell you what, one of these is in Middlesbrough next Tuesday. You could catch the Lazio second-leg at the Riverside. Johnners could get you in. He might even get you an armband.” Well, that was a bit of a decider. “I’ll pack a warm jacket,” I said. “Good man,” said Kippo. “Good man.”
    [
More driving required, slowing down
] Hang on, left here.Sutherland Road. That’s it. Should be down on the right. [
Reading house numbers
] Sixty-eight. Ninety. Hundred and six. Hundred and ten. Hundred and twenty. [
Stops the car
] Here we are, then. Number one-four-four. And what’s the time? Twenty past? Great. [
Switches off engine
] Oof. I’ve even got a few minutes to spare.
    So anyway, off I went to Hackney yesterday afternoon, to meet Juliet and our first medium, who was this very unassuming old bloke in a nice cardigan, and I whispered to Juliet as we looked round, “Not a lot of cash in this psychic malarkey, then?”, which she ignored because she’s a bit stuck-up, being a) from Features, b) married to Brian Frampton, the deputy editor, and c) runner-up in 1997 for Broadsheet Stuck-up Feature Writer of the Year. Anyway, the bloke’s name was Lister. Mister Lister. He made us a cup of coffee and he was obviously quite nervous, coz his hands were shaking, but Juliet didn’t notice. What she did notice straight away, however, was that the poor old geezer couldn’t get the hang of who was in charge between us. He kept saying things like, “And would the, er, lady like sugar?” and all the while addressing me instead of her, even though I made a big show of deferring to Juliet. “Oh, Juliet’s the boss,” I kept saying. “She’s the words and I’m just the pictures.” In the end, she said, rather pointedly, “Would it be all right for Mark to scout for a good place for the photographs?” And Mister Lister looked confused but said all right.
    It was a sad old house, really. Old bloke on