The taxi jolted unexpectedly and Roger was forced to look at his shoelace tied in a precarious fashion with one end frayed where it had snapped. Another omen. He caught a moments doubt mid-rise and swallowed it back, not entirely sure how he got himself in this predicament, if a predicament was what it was. The lovely Irene didn’t think so, but then he wasn’t so sure that Irene ever did really stop and think about anything. Well no, maybe that was an untruth. She did think about some things, quite often and with the determination of a monorail. She had the most amazingly dextrous feet, and could do marvellous things to a man’s flaccid ego under the tablecloth at ‘The Star of Bengal’ in the alcoholic fog laden period just after last orders. He had met her while playing bingo at a smoke filled workingmen’s club when she had jumped up to call house, losing her boob tube in the excitement and ensuring her place in his affections. With or without omens he couldn’t deny his turn of luck and caught his reflection in the rear view mirror looking back at him with the expression of a man guarding a pleasantly erotic secret.