How to tell if you're in a Patricia Highsmith novel.
You happen upon someone from an especially wealthy background, much less deserving than you of such luxury. This happens weekly.
Your knowledge of classical culture, from delighting in Leider by Schubert to correct appraisals of 50s American expressionism is shared by your whole social circle.
All the 50s American expressionist paintings are fakes, painted by someone you murdered.There are certain colours of sweater, hemlines, hats, cuff-links and turns of phrase that people deserve to be murdered for.
At some point you will visit a foreign city and sample its teas and customs with a certain air that these customs are where we have come from, and should never be fallen back upon, though you will have a phase of going native, if only for an afternoon, and if only with some impoverished local who you'll thoughtlessly hurl in the trash as soon as it all stales.
Conventions in afternoon alcoholism must be observed at all times. Gin and tonic as an aperitif follows the two beers for lunch and the afternoon Calvados with coffee.
You might be gay, but it would be boring to actually say so.
Italians, French, Spanish, British and American waiters all behave completely differently, but each one adheres strictly to their national pattern. The same is true of taxi drivers, receptionists, dogs and people drinking coffee, carefree on sun-drenched patios.
You have an enemy. You may not have had one since primary school and you're fully aware life is plenty tough enough already, but you have one nonetheless. At times it will feel like you have the upper hand, then the reverse will seem true. The whole chess match will invigorate you out of the non-homicidal stupor in which you've been languishing for months.
Identities are boring. Change yours at will by adopting phonetic accents of comic genius.
Wash often, but only as a metaphor.
A visit to your next door neighbour must be preceded by a sealed letter two weeks in advance, inquiring as to their general good health and knowledge of local gossip. This is to be followed up with an afternoon telephone call, between Calvados and gin, where you can verbally dance around your mutual loathing and the plots you're fostering against one another. An invitation will then swiftly arrive by card to dinner at theirs the following night.
Nothing beats socialising with people you hate, especially in the company of people who don't especially care either way. Lace every phrase with codified references to ways you can blackmail them. You struggle to decipher their codified references.
You never derive any pleasure from food. Tinned sardines on dry crackers would do it, and frequently does, served by your maid on the veranda overlooking the tennis court with champagne.
You believe pop music is for children and Jazz is where the line is drawn as far as tolerable musical decline from Monteverdi.
There is probably a wife or girlfriend somewhere you really ought to be getting back to if only you could be bothered.
If you liked this, you might like my novel, Sour, telling an old Irish myth as a modern murder story:
