It is a Saturday in December, fourteen months later, and there is nothing on it.
That is the thing Yasmin Haddad cannot get used to and has stopped trying to. There is no closing. There is no bundle. There is a flat in Bermondsey with rather more in it than there used to be, and a very good sofa, and a wall to look at, and a man asleep face down at nine in the morning with his glasses on the floor where he dropped them.
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