She smells like a recovering hipster, but so do half the girls in Chelsea. He tilts his head to the side, one eye half-closed. This isn't magic either, though he once told a girl it was, a way to see what isn't there. The simple fact of it is that most illusion magic is made for humans with two eyeballs. Weakening one can cause shapes to pop out, wings and tails where there ought to be none.

No dice. He tries the other eye, and while it's an odd performance, he carries it with such natural ease one could think he's just bored. Maybe he has a crick in his neck. You never know with men like him, the type fueled entirely of cigarette filters, bad news and sausage rolls.

"Nightly news. Local Scouse predicts future." He puts one hand up, moving it over the bottom of the imaginary TV set like a news feed. "Rees... Mogg... Prime... Minister."