It’s just struck 1pm, and John Fox has ordered a Prosecco. Which makes perfect sense — when you’ve written a newspaper column for 34 years, you’ve earned the right to drink bubbles before lunch. We are with his friend M, who has a head of bouncy hair from a TV commercial.
We’ve been talking for an hour, mostly about my new book, which really means we’ve been talking about life. Because all books — even the bad ones — are about lives.
