The man in Smith’s was wearing jeans and a lavish baby-blue jacket picked out with thread of all the brightest colours. My guess was that it was a traditional Lapp coat. Not quite.
“I was in Iceland,” he told the woman behind the counter. “I was herding reindeer. I wrote a book about it.”
She asked him the name of the book. He looked slightly embarrassed.
“It was never published. But I did write it.”
She asked him if he’d seen that film, you know, the one about the crying camel.
“Yes I did.”
It was in Outer Mongolia, or somewhere.
“Yes.”
Did he like it?
“I was in Iceland. Herding reindeer.”
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