I find Robert Lindsay – I almost trip over him – on a pavement outside Marylebone station just across the street from the hotel where we are to meet. Oh dear. I never know what to do in these situations. Should I feign short-sightedness, and make my way smoothly to the air-conditioned atrium where a discreet table has been booked for us by a publicist? Or should I take the risk and introduce myself now? In the end, I decide there’s nothing for it. We’re practically eye-balling; he might recognise me later and wonder why I scooted past so rudely. Also, he looks kind of anxious, his bag at his feet, his hands patting his pockets. Maybe he’s lost, and needs me to rescue him?
But, no. What I take for anxiety is merely the slight shiftiness of the 21st-century smoker. “Just let me have a cigarette,” he says, once I’ve explained who I am. “Do you mind?” He takes three quick drags – the action is darting and delicate, like a swan going after breadcrumbs at the park – and chucks what’s left in the bin. Then we cross the road together, his hand tight on my upper arm, the better to keep us safe from all the taxis and Deliveroo men. “Ah!” he exhales. “I’m so glad we decided to meet here, and not [at this point, a slight adjustment in the voice] in King’s Cross…” Marylebone, he tells me, is extremely convenient because he lives in Gerrards Cross in Buckinghamshire, and this is where the London train tips him out. Later, I look up Gerrards Cross. It sounds luxe. It gets a namecheck in a sketch from the very first episode of Monty Python’s Flying Circus, and also in a song by prog-rock band Jethro Tull.
