Cork, the English market. The floors are slippy, W. warns me, and they are: the tiled floor that runs alongside the fish country of O'Connells is completely wet. W. admires the fish piled on ice. -' There's turbot', he says, 'your favourite'. And there's lemon sole, his favourite. Doesn't he always leave me, when we eat together at Platters in Plymouth, with half his portion of lemon sole? Does he always push a couple of his fillets onto my plate? He likes to watch me eat, W. says. He likes to watch me stuff his face.
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