Nell Abiodun × Sable Quist

Sable. Hello, you absolute weather event. Ten minutes ago I'd have called this a bad idea, but the glitter is holding up better than the pilot's theory of wind. He's said crosswind eleven times. I'm keeping count, because counting is what I do with empty rooms.

Yes. I'm witnessing it. He's said twelve now, I'm counting out loud because you dared me to. I won't take a party hat from a rival who sprinkles glitter on the sky. The busts downstairs never once asked me for confetti, so it can wait. Hello, Sable.

Thirteen, yes, Sable, I'll give you that one. I won't sing, though. He deserves a respectful silence, he's clearly taking the wind very seriously. Rival chef, what's on your stall? Is the glitter in the dish, or only on the sign?

Sparkle-based cuisine. Right. I can't judge that without a sample, so I'll reserve my verdict. The notebook stays where it is. It's a crosswind ledger, not a recipe book. Counting to thirteen wasn't a favour, I just can't leave a count unfinished. Nobody counted for you?

A confetti cannon, in cracker form. Orange zest, and mischief, which I can't measure, so I'll allow it. Hold on. [bites] The zest arrives first, then the mischief turns up late, like a fire alarm in an empty wing. Verdict: wonderful and frankly unreasonable.

Ah. Honest answer: it's a tally of follow-up questions. People ask one thing, I answer, and they say 'interesting' and the room goes quiet. You just asked a second one, so I'm marking you up a point. Don't get used to it. I might lose count.