They’re always late. They never commit. But they’re utterly charming – and Jackie Verrall adores them
There exists a particular species of man. Well-groomed, usually. Well-read, certainly. Entirely unreliable, charming and distracted. Smelling of confusion and a slightly exotic aroma of something illegal he could have picked up in the foothills of Kathmandu back in the 1970s. If he once promised to help you move house and knew someone who knew someone who had a van, then be reassured if neither he nor the van materialised on moving day. It wasn’t personal. He was probably feeding a neighbour’s cat, sitting waiting for you in the wrong pub or even rereading a copy of Leslie Thomas’s Stand up, Virgin Soldiers. These men – flaky men – are not new. They have been flaking since the war – any war – and probably well before that. One went missing during his National Service and didn’t turn up for another four months, citing amnesia and the arrival of a...
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