Back home I found a box of flowers and a parcel. The first contained a dozen red roses and the second, I noticed with surprise, came from Worcester.
'Perhaps it's a jigsaw.' said one of my fellow Pedants at work when I mentioned that he'd called me to wish me a safe trip and said he was going to sent me something.
'Ha bloody ha,' I retorted, though knowing full well that it was unlikely to be a box from Tiffany's. For those of you who are wondering about the significance of jigsaws in this sentence it's because I met him when we published Margaret Drabble's 'Pattern in the Carpet' about - yes - jigsaws, because, erm, yes - he makes them - as in manufactures them - as in runs a jigsaw factory. I know, I know, you can keep the jokes, I've heard them all before, and even made a few...
As it turned out, however, my colleague was right. The fabled gift was, indeed, a jigsaw. However instead of the obligatory chocolate box picture the box bore a photograph of my own fair self.
Ahhhhh. Sweet. Really sweet. I was touched.
The implication only dawned on me later when I had another look at the photograph. It was taken on a boat in Lake Como. The last time I saw him. The weekend we split up. Now commemorated in a jigsaw.
Broken up into little pieces.
If that's not a metaphor then I don't know what is.
