Truck Pictures

The diner is called Bar-B-Cutie, which makes me wince somewhat. Barbecue is okay but it's way down my list, contrary to current geographical determinist thought or at least to Mary, my dad's partner who asked what sort of thing I eat in Texas, then declared but it's all barbecue innit. This will be my third top convention, an event hosted for the benefit of collectors of high-end hand-tooled metal spinning tops.

Me neither, but Andrea does, and Andrea is my wife's best friend. The person who agreed to organise the convention raffle has gone AWOL, so Bess is helping out. The convention is tomorrow but we're meeting tonight for the sake of having a look at the venue.

Bar-B-Cutie seems to be the McDonald's of barbecue - the cheap and cheerful version. I order decimated brisket in a burger bun with sides of mashed potato and coleslaw, plus a beer - obviously. The two previous top conventions were similarly held at barbecue joints, the towns of Mansfield and Spring respectively. Collectors of high-end hand-tooled metal spinning tops enjoy barbecue.

We find a seat and wait for the food. I haven't eaten all day so I'm very hungry. Other spinning top people mill around, and Andrea points out Robyn and Lawerence. I recognise Robyn from one of the two previous events.

The brisket is delicious, once it arrives. The mashed potato is decent. The coleslaw is unpleasant, with a faint tang of waste disposal or a sink which fails to drain. After two forkfuls I decide against it.

Robyn turns up at our table. She remembers Bess and she shows us photographs of her resin creations. They're purely decorative but are quite nice. She explains that Lawerence's name is spelled that way because his father didn't make it through high school, so the misspelling is legal. Funnily enough, when banks and shitbrained employers misspell my name, that's how they misspell it.

'Also, he's Lawrence with a w,' Robyn adds. 'I know back in your country it's mostly Laurence with a u.'

I try, but am unable to recall ever having met a Laurence. I can't think of many Lawrences either, excepting Lawrence Miles.

I'm still hungry so I order another burger, this time with Polish sausage. It comes with fries and tastes good, although the fries are a bit dry.

Robyn shows me a photograph on her smartphone - a truck with horns attached to the front bumper.

'We knew we were in Texas just as soon as we saw this.'

I don't know if she expects us to be flattered, impressed, amazed or what. I think about my dad showing Lynda around Coventry Cathedral, telling her all about Australia and what it's like to live there based on the month he spent visiting Frank, his younger brother. Lynda moved to Australia in 1973. I expect she knows a fair bit about what it's like to live there but is too polite to say anything.

Meanwhile, back in the present, back at Bar-B-Cutie, Robyn is showing me a picture of vehicles driven by herself and misspelled Lawerence, both dayglo lime, a truck and a Dodge of some description, therefore ticking another couple of boxes.

The air conditioning is such that I'm cold enough to wish I'd brought a jumper. I can't really hear what anyone is saying because we're in a room full of people, specifically top enthusiasts; and when I can hear them, I don't always understand because they speak with that wide-ass Texan cracker accent which I don't actually hear on a daily basis; and when I do understand them, I can't work out why they're telling me. Someone is showing me a picture of their fucking truck and I feel a powerful need to be elsewhere before anyone asks what I thought of the last Spurs game.

Bess, as usual, is able to read my mind. 'We'll leave before nine,' she reassures me, except it doesn't because it's only just gone seven. I don't say anything but my face says it for me. I've always found it difficult to conceal expressions of despair and horror.

Ten minutes later we're in the car heading home.

'Maybe you should just do a half day tomorrow,' Bess suggests. 'I could come back and pick you up around lunch.'

I agree to this, then realise I simply can't.

'Do you really need me to be there, I mean at all?'

'Well, I don't like to leave you on your own.'

'I'll be fine,' I say.

'Honest.'