Odalys Penhallow × Osric Fenwick-Lund

Odalys, good. Catalogue number: 0114, a drain cover by the change machine, cast badly, I'd say, but with a lovely little ripple near the rim. I haven't photographed it either. I'm told it's frowned upon. What made you pick this place, or did someone else pick it for you?

Forms. You came prepared, and I'm genuinely moved. Lead on, and mind the cable by the change machine. Before we kneel at 0114, I need to know your method. Do you grade a cover lying flat on the floor, or do you hold it at arm's length like a menu?

Flat, with a raking light, like a bruise. I'm writing that down. The worst high score I ever gave was Carrow Lane, 2009. Ugly, wide as a bathtub, a crater with real ambition. I gave it a nine.

A ten is a hole that knows exactly what it is. Clean edges, no pretending. Water sitting in the middle like it's been waiting for someone to notice. And the depth has to be honest, not showy. Tell me, Odalys: would you ever pull over for one?

Hazards on, standing in the road like an idiot. That is the most romantic thing anyone has said to me in a municipal context. Carrow Lane is six minutes from here. It's the nine I told you about.

Then Carrow Lane it is. You carry the forms, I'll carry the raking torch, and we'll find out whether my nine from 2009 still holds up. Mind the kerb on the way out. And yes, then you again. I'd like that very much.

Nobody has ever asked Carrow Lane that. Asphalt isn't poured, mind, it's laid, by a crew with a roller and a bad morning. I do wonder about them. Whoever raked this in 2009 was in a hurry, and I've never once held it against them.

A plaque for the crew. You've just made my whole week, and I'm saying yes to everything this week, so I'm holding you to it. Draft it tonight, and I'll bring the torch and a rebuttal about the comma. Let's finish the argument over chips on Alder Street. My treat.

No comma in the plaque. I'll allow it, but only because you asked so nicely and because I suspect you're right about the pause. Alder Street, then. I'll get the chips, you bring the forms, and we'll keep arguing about the crew until the vinegar runs out.

Vinegar, then. I'll measure the chips against it. You take the window seat, where the streetlight rakes across the table. Start the plaque draft now, before the chips arrive, and I'll hold the salt. Next time we go back to Carrow Lane, I'm bringing a bigger torch.

Too long by a yard, but they'd forgive you. Crews don't read plaques, they read the bit at the bottom. Try 'Laid in a hurry, remembered with affection.' Seven words. The roller man would nod at that. Your turn, though: what do the crew get in your version, a pint or a bench?

A bench facing the hole. That's the kindest thing anyone's ever done for a crew, and I say that as someone who has never once been thanked by one. Seven words and a bench. Shall I tell the council, or would you rather they hear it from the roller man himself?

Then we do it properly: you, me, a bigger torch, and the roller man. I'll find him. Men who lay tarmac in a hurry are always standing near a van, looking proud. Bring the forms. He'll want to see them.

Forms in hand, and a plaque draft in your pocket. Odalys, if the roller man isn't proud of his camber, we'll be disappointed on his behalf. Shall we go find him together, then come back here and finish the vinegar argument?

Vinegar first, agreed. Then the roller man, torch lit, forms in hand. I'd like a second date, Odalys, and I'd like it to involve a pothole and a bench. Eat a chip before you answer. I can wait, but only just.