“Stop,” said my husband, as I was exiting in tennis gear, trying to make my 8am doubles up the road in Notting Hill and grab an indoor court as the outdoor ones have seen little action since… well… around October last year.
He stood in the doorway and handed me a pale blue envelope containing a card. “R Johnson” it said on it. What was it? A subpoena? It did look like his writing, but I couldn’t think.
