Camping in France Part 1

I’m nineteen and camping on a farm in Brittany. It’s one of those hot days where nothing asks anything of you, and you’re quite happy to give nothing back. I’m lying about, enjoying the warmth, when the farmer wanders over.

He’s wearing baggy trousers and a jacket, a cap pulled low. If you lifted him up and dropped him in Yorkshire, gave him the accent to match, no one would question it.

“Eh! Anglais.”

“Hey, Frédéric.”

He tells me he’s going to chop down a tree and asks if I want to come along. I do. Not because I’m particularly keen on trees, but because there’s nothing else to do and this seems as good a way as any to spend the afternoon.

We go to the barn and he gathers bow saws, axes, bits and pieces he thinks we might need, and loads them into his Citroën van — a 2CV, but the estate version, which feels important somehow.

We drive a few kilometres along narrow lanes, hedges close on either side, until we stop by a tree with no leaves. This, apparently, is the one. Frédéric pulls over, opens the back doors, takes out a ladder and hands me a bow saw.

“let's go.”

I prop the ladder against the tree and climb up. Frédéric stands below, pointing vaguely at where he wants me to start. I shuffle along a branch and begin sawing. The wood is dry, the saw sharp, and it’s all surprisingly easy.

I’ve only been at it a little while when a car slows and stops. The driver winds down his window.

“What are you doing?”

It’s Pierre from the next farm.

“We’re cutting down the tree.”

He considers this for a moment, then asks if we want some help.

Another bow saw appears. Pierre climbs up beside me and starts cutting branches while Frédéric works below, gathering what falls, trimming twigs with his axe. We settle into it without much talking.

Later, another car arrives. Same questions, same answers. This time it’s Gérard, who says he’ll be back shortly with more tools.

By midday there are four of us, the tree looking thinner now, though still very much there.

Another car pulls up.

“It’s my wife — Sylvie,” Gérard says.

Sylvie opens the boot and takes out a large hamper.

And that’s that. We down tools.

We sit on the grass while she pours red wine and passes round bread and cheese. The sun is high, the work forgotten. We drink, talk, do nothing in particular. Time stands still.

Eventually Frédéric stands and dusts himself off. That’s enough for today.

“But what about the tree?” I ask.

He shrugs and drinks the last of his wine

“It’ll still be there next week.”

The Romany Wedding

I arrive early, as always. Weddings run on chaos, but photography doesn’t forgive lateness. The bride is upstairs, about to come down a narrow staircase. Her white dress fills the space, embroidered red roses climbing the fabric like something alive. She wears a band of flowers in her hair, not quite a tiara, but close enough. Behind her, her sister giggles nervously, hands clasped, eyes shining.

This matters.
The moment before things begin always matters.

Downstairs the groom waits, surrounded by family, energy buzzing like static. When the bride appears, the noise softens for just a second. Then the music starts and we’re off.

The church ceremony unfolds as expected — candles, crucifix, priest murmuring calmly while the bride and groom bow their heads. It’s formal, restrained, familiar. I do what I’m paid to do: anticipate, frame, disappear.

And then it’s over.

“So what are we doing now?” I ask Sofia.

“Now we go to the registry office.”

“Wait. I was told the wedding was at two o’clock.”

“It is. But first we get the certificate. Then Toma and Natalia can get married.”

“But they’ll already be officially married.”

“It’s our way,” she says simply. “There are none of our traditions at the registry office.”

“None?”

“Well… maybe some. You’ll see.”

That intrigues me.

The registry office looks like every other one I’ve ever photographed — a block of offices with a token arch outside for photos. A million weddings, all the same pictures, just different faces. Depressing, really. But predictable. And predictable is manageable.

We park. Guests mill around in small groups. The bride and groom stay in the car. I’ve noticed couples often do that — building tension, maybe, or just keeping warm. I wander, take a few candid shots. It keeps me busy, and guests love it. Standing around doing nothing makes me itchy.

The best men begin arranging people in two lines along the path. I climb onto a low wall behind them, camera ready.

Suddenly, music.
Lively, unapologetic.

The couple walk down the path, musicians close behind. Everyone claps and cheers as they march into the building in time with the tune.

Inside, instead of quiet chairs and polite coughing, there’s dancing. The music doesn’t stop. The waiting room becomes a party. Full volume, full joy.

Then a door opens.

A man in a black suit steps out.
“We’re trying to perform a wedding here. Could you stop the music and show some respect?”

The music stops instantly. People glance around, sheepish, finding chairs, studying their fingernails.

“What noise?”

Eventually it’s our turn. We file in quietly. Chairs scrape. Someone coughs.

The celebrant looks up.
“Ah. Michael. You again?”

“Yes. Me again.”

“Well, you know the procedure. Take your usual place.”

I stand by a potted plant on a pedestal and remind myself not to step backwards.

The ceremony is exactly what it always is: straight-laced, predictable, efficient. I take the stock photos. It’s done. As we leave, the assistant throws open the doors and the musicians immediately strike up again, this time leading us out into the car park. The celebrant buries his face in his hands.

He never had a chance.

We do the arch photos — it’s the law — while vodka shots are handed out from the back of an estate car. A mini bar, fully stocked.

Guests for the next wedding arrive. Two prim ladies in twin sets and pearls step out of a car. One of the Romanians runs over instantly with glasses and a bottle.

“You want vodka?”

The lady in green panics, vigorously shaking her hand.
“Oh noooo, thank you, you’re very kind, but no.”

Undeterred, he turns to the other.
“You want vodka? You have vodka. Is wedding.”

I’d heard that line before.

Next stop is a hotel reception hall — the “proper” wedding. Guests are already there, those not interested in registry office formalities. I scout the room, note positions, imagine where things might happen. It rarely works out exactly like that.

“They’re coming!” Sofia shouts.

Outside again. Every arrival must be documented. That’s my brief.

Inside, there’s no altar, no crucifix. Just the priest, standing with everyone gathered around him in a loose circle. I don’t understand a word he’s saying, but it clearly matters.

Without warning, he picks up two plates and smashes them on the floor.

I jump. Everyone else stays calm.

The best men step forward. Toma is handed a dustpan. Natalia, a brush. Together they kneel and clean up the mess.

“It’s symbolic,” Sofia whispers. “From now on they carry life’s burdens together.”

Everyone cheers. The priest fades away. His job is done.

Self-appointed barmen begin circulating with vodka. Children run screaming between tables. The party has begun.

The hall looks like a school gym stripped of its equipment. A stage at one end. Musicians setting up microphones and amplifiers — somehow louder than before.

Three long rows of tables. Four people per table. Each table stocked with vodka, whiskey, red wine, white wine. I glance at the children and wonder what they’re drinking.

I photograph. The girls pout, duck faces in full force. They don’t need to. Just smile — I’m a professional. The men pose with raised vodka glasses. No duck faces there. Just confidence.

An announcement. Cheers. The band plays. Everyone turns — not toward the stage, but toward the back.

Food arrives.
A lot of food.

“Mister Fotograf,” someone says, grabbing my arm. “You eat with us. You take good foto?”

“Yes. Loads.”

“You good man. Come. We eat.”

He fills my plate until the pattern disappears. I later learn he’s Toma’s father.

“You want vodka?”
This isn’t a question.
“You are family now. You have vodka.”

The food is incredible. I try everything. My mother was right — you won’t know unless you try.

Music starts. Dancing. More vodka. Guests grab me, spin me around, demand photos. Men slap my shoulder. Pose. Click. Move on.

An hour later: another announcement.
More food.
That was just the first course.

“How long does this wedding go on?” I ask Sofia.

“We’ve just started. Two more courses. Then cake.”

“I don’t think I can keep going.”

“Ah. You need vodka.”

By evening, everyone is loosened, oiled, joyful. The band gives way to a DJ. The tempo lifts. Older guests sit and watch. The young ones whirl.

And then it happens.

A stumble. A drink knocked. A shove. A shove back.

The music plays on, but the dancing stops. A circle forms. Fists fly.

You can’t help but watch.
People have been doing this forever.

Men pull them apart. This is a wedding. Take it outside.

They sit on a low wall, breathing hard. Watched. Slowly, one stands, offers his hand. The other takes it. They hug.

Relief.

I don’t photograph this.

By now I’ve been working since seven in the morning. It’s ten at night. Fifteen hours. Enough.

I pack my kit and leave.

A hundred yards down the road I stop and turn back. The music is still there, faint now. I let the night take over.

It was a great wedding.
A lot of fun.

But I’m glad they’re not all like that.

And then it’s over.

“So what are we doing now?” I ask Sofia.

“Now we go to the registry office.”

“Wait. I was told the wedding was at two o’clock.”

“It is. But first we get the certificate. Then Toma and Natalia can get married.”

“But they’ll already be officially married.”

“It’s our way,” she says simply. “There are none of our traditions at the registry office.”

“None?”

“Well… maybe some. You’ll see.”

That intrigues me.

The registry office looks like every other one I’ve ever photographed — a block of offices with a token arch outside for photos. A million weddings, all the same pictures, just different faces. Depressing, really. But predictable. And predictable is manageable.

We park. Guests mill around in small groups. The bride and groom stay in the car. I’ve noticed couples often do that — building tension, maybe, or just keeping warm. I wander, take a few candid shots. It keeps me busy, and guests love it. Standing around doing nothing makes me itchy.

The best men begin arranging people in two lines along the path. I climb onto a low wall behind them, camera ready.

Suddenly, music.
Lively, unapologetic.

The couple walk down the path, musicians close behind. Everyone claps and cheers as they march into the building in time with the tune.

Inside, instead of quiet chairs and polite coughing, there’s dancing. The music doesn’t stop. The waiting room becomes a party. Full volume, full joy.

Then a door opens.

A man in a black suit steps out.
“We’re trying to perform a wedding here. Could you stop the music and show some respect?”

The music stops instantly. People glance around, sheepish, finding chairs, studying their fingernails.

“What noise?”

Eventually it’s our turn. We file in quietly. Chairs scrape. Someone coughs.

The celebrant looks up.
“Ah. Michael. You again?”

“Yes. Me again.”

“Well, you know the procedure. Take your usual place.”

I stand by a potted plant on a pedestal and remind myself not to step backwards.

The ceremony is exactly what it always is: straight-laced, predictable, efficient. I take the stock photos. It’s done. As we leave, the assistant throws open the doors and the musicians immediately strike up again, this time leading us out into the car park. The celebrant buries his face in his hands.

He never had a chance.

We do the arch photos — it’s the law — while vodka shots are handed out from the back of an estate car. A mini bar, fully stocked.

Guests for the next wedding arrive. Two prim ladies in twin sets and pearls step out of a car. One of the Romanians runs over instantly with glasses and a bottle.

“You want vodka?”

The lady in green panics, vigorously shaking her hand.
“Oh noooo, thank you, you’re very kind, but no.”

Undeterred, he turns to the other.
“You want vodka? You have vodka. Is wedding.”

I’d heard that line before.

Next stop is a hotel reception hall — the “proper” wedding. Guests are already there, those not interested in registry office formalities. I scout the room, note positions, imagine where things might happen. It rarely works out exactly like that.

“They’re coming!” Sofia shouts.

Outside again. Every arrival must be documented. That’s my brief.

Inside, there’s no altar, no crucifix. Just the priest, standing with everyone gathered around him in a loose circle. I don’t understand a word he’s saying, but it clearly matters.

Without warning, he picks up two plates and smashes them on the floor.

I jump. Everyone else stays calm.

The best men step forward. Toma is handed a dustpan. Natalia, a brush. Together they kneel and clean up the mess.

“It’s symbolic,” Sofia whispers. “From now on they carry life’s burdens together.”

Everyone cheers. The priest fades away. His job is done.

Self-appointed barmen begin circulating with vodka. Children run screaming between tables. The party has begun.

The hall looks like a school gym stripped of its equipment. A stage at one end. Musicians setting up microphones and amplifiers — somehow louder than before.

Three long rows of tables. Four people per table. Each table stocked with vodka, whiskey, red wine, white wine. I glance at the children and wonder what they’re drinking.

I photograph. The girls pout, duck faces in full force. They don’t need to. Just smile — I’m a professional. The men pose with raised vodka glasses. No duck faces there. Just confidence.

An announcement. Cheers. The band plays. Everyone turns — not toward the stage, but toward the back.

Food arrives.
A lot of food.

“Mister Fotograf,” someone says, grabbing my arm. “You eat with us. You take good foto?”

“Yes. Loads.”

“You good man. Come. We eat.”

He fills my plate until the pattern disappears. I later learn he’s Toma’s father.

“You want vodka?”
This isn’t a question.
“You are family now. You have vodka.”

The food is incredible. I try everything. My mother was right — you won’t know unless you try.

Music starts. Dancing. More vodka. Guests grab me, spin me around, demand photos. Men slap my shoulder. Pose. Click. Move on.

An hour later: another announcement.
More food.
That was just the first course.

“How long does this wedding go on?” I ask Sofia.

“We’ve just started. Two more courses. Then cake.”

“I don’t think I can keep going.”

“Ah. You need vodka.”

By evening, everyone is loosened, oiled, joyful. The band gives way to a DJ. The tempo lifts. Older guests sit and watch. The young ones whirl.

And then it happens.

A stumble. A drink knocked. A shove. A shove back.

The music plays on, but the dancing stops. A circle forms. Fists fly.

You can’t help but watch.
People have been doing this forever.

Men pull them apart. This is a wedding. Take it outside.

They sit on a low wall, breathing hard. Watched. Slowly, one stands, offers his hand. The other takes it. They hug.

Relief.

I don’t photograph this.

By now I’ve been working since seven in the morning. It’s ten at night. Fifteen hours. Enough.

I pack my kit and leave.

A hundred yards down the road I stop and turn back. The music is still there, faint now. I let the night take over.

It was a great wedding.
A lot of fun.

But I’m glad they’re not all like that.

 

 Captain Leonard Roswell (Eastfield Road 2009)

Back in the day I lived in Eastfield Road. It was a great place to live. It was like a little Bohemian village that just happened to be walking distance from the city centre. It’s not like that now. One colourful character in the cast of thousands that made up Eastfield Road was Mr Roswell.

Mr Roswell was completely mad. He was convinced invisible rays were penetrating his house from passing spaceships. He noticed that if he lit a candle it flickered, it was conclusive proof of the existence of aliens. Their rays making the candles flicker. OBVIOUSLY. But to Mr Roswell this was cutting edge ufology. The next day he lined up eight candles on his kitchen table. He spent hours watching them until they burnt down. Then set up eight more. Eventually he came to me to with the revelation that electromagnetic radiation from Aliens were causing the candles to flicker. He explained all this to me with complete authority. If only he could record the flickers of the candle and play it back half speed, he could count the flickers. There must be a pattern he could decode. The aliens were definitely trying to tell him something. But is it a warning or a message that could save the Earth? Then answer is in the flickering candles. I didn’t dare tell him it’s the draught from his wonky window making them flicker. I didn’t want to burst his bubble.

Leonard Roswell strides down Eastfield Road, a pair of beady eyes peering out from a filthy baseball cap and a mass of beard and hair. He seems to have a telescopic radio aerial sticking out the bottom of his cap. He doesn't break step or even look at me as he says "they're watching you".

I dramatically look about, left and right "Me? Why me? What have I done?”

But he's gone in more ways than one. He shout’s back without turning round “No one is safe.” The aliens are creeping into Eastfield Road. Should I be afraid? Sometimes Mr Roswell looks quite normal, apart from the bacofoil and the radio antenna, which poke suspiciously out from under his baseball cap. It's the little things that give him away, that and talking to lamp posts of course.

Pegden Part 5

 

The door opened a crack. “Good it’s you.” Says Pegden peering through the crack, he opened the door to let me in. There was a bed in the corner, unmade. The duvet crumpled up. In the corner a flat screen TV. Next to it a small table with a plant in a pot on it. The plant had long since given up any hope of living. A few dog ends in the pot, kept the dead plant company in the afterlife. A wardrobe stood with a door hanging from one hinge. Opposite the TV was an armchair. The arms worn through to the lining, with cigarette burns all over the ends. In front of that, a coffee table strewn with empty beer cans, a full ashtray and a tobacco tin and papers. A wooden ski held a joss stick slowly burning away. The room smelt of Sandalwood and weed. I’d smelt worse. “Welcome to my abode.” Say Pegden. “It’s not much, but you know, this is just temporary, better things are on the horizon.”

At that moment I knew better things were never going to be on his horizon. For all his tall tales and adventure. This was it. “Nice.” I said. “Seems cosy.”

“It’s great here." he was trying to sound enthusiastic, but failing. "Close to town. But far enough away from trouble. It’s quiet down this street. Then I’ve got Skyla downstairs…”

“I think I met her on the way in.”

“She’s lovely. Heart of gold, that girl. Very intelligent. Had a good education. Not like me. University of life me.”

“She seemed nice enough. Only spoke to her briefly. She was on the way out.”

“oh yeah it’s that time. She usually goes out about now. Looking for work.” He gives me a knowing nod. “Anyway you’re looking for a quarter.” He stresses the word ‘quarter' and laughs

“OK don’t rub it in.”

“Have a seat, you’re not in a hurry are you?”

“Actually I am. I’ve got to get the gear to that friend of mine.”

“The guy with cancer yeah. Sorry. Give me a minute.” He rustles through the top drawer of a chest of drawers. On top of which was stored various aftershaves and spray cans of lynx.” Here we go.” He pulls out a tin, opens it carefully and after sweeping aside some cans lays it down on his coffee table. “Now then 10 grammes is it?”

“Yes about that.”

“Then about that, you’ll get.” He carefully transfers a portion of his stash into a small plastic bag. “That’ll be about right. What do you think? Enough?” He holds it up for me to see. I haven’t a clue. It looks OK. What does ten grammes of weed look like? I’d never thought about it.

“Looks good to me Pegden.”

“I think so too.”

“How much?”

“Well it’s eighteen pounds for ten grammes.”

“Eighteen? It was Eighteen a quarter when I was at Uni.”

“There you go. What a bargain. AND you’re getting more. Go on, give me fifteen and we’ll call it a deal.”

“You sure?” I guessed it was not the whole ten grammes.

“Positive. What are mates for?”

I thought to myself "Mates mug you but with gentleness and finesse, so you don't mind." I took the bag and put in my inside coat pocket. “Thanks Pegden. You’re helping a good friend out.”

“I hope so.”

“I’d better get going.”

We shook hands and I went out the door, clattered down the stairs and into the night air.

“See you down the pub sometime.” I looked up Pegden was leaning out his window.

“Sure.” I said. “See you there.”

I walked back to my car. It was still there. I stood and listened a moment. The road was silent. Pegden was right about one thing, this is a quiet road.

TBC

Pegden part 4

 

After the Beer Festival, Pegden disappeared again. It wasn’t unusual. I never knew exactly what he did or where he was. He would just show up when he was good and ready. I never chased him. He is what he is. Flighty.

I get a call from Pete. He’d been diagnosed with cancer and he was in a bad way.

“Mike I need a favour.”

“What’s that? Anything I can do… you know.”

“I need some weed, grass. I’m having a really bad time right now.”

“I don‘t have any.”

”But you’ve got contacts. You know people. What do you reckon? Can you get some? I’m desperate.”

“OK Pete. For you’ll I’ll try and sort something.”

It’s not something I deal in, but I can’t have a friend suffering for the sake of some weed. I make a call.

“Pegden?”

“Mike. How are you?”

“I need your help.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I need to get hold of some weed.”

“What you?” He laughed.

“No not for me. For a friend. He has cancer. He’s in a bad way. I’ve got to try and help him out.”

“OK.” He thought for a minute, “I can probably help you out.”

“Great.”

“How much you looking for.”

“A quarter?”

Hysterical laughter came down the line. “When was the last time you bought weed?”

“I haven’t. But at Uni that’s what they bought and sold it in.”

“Mike, you’re precious mate. Un-fucking-believable.”

“Come on Pegden, don’t take the piss. Help me out here.”

“OK it’s sold in grammes now. How many grammes do you want?”

“I don’t fucking know. What do you think? You’re the expert. How many grammes is closest to a quarter?”

“It’s 10 grammes, but that’s a little more than a quarter I think.”

“OK have you got any?”

“Yes mate. For you I’ve got ten grammes.”

“Can I come and get it?”

“Now?”

“Yes this is an emergency.”

“OK. OK. Come on down I’ll sort it out for you.”

“Where are you?”

Pegden was in a bedsit in Woodston down a back street. A long row of terraced houses with cars either side of the road bumper to bumper. I parked up where I could and walked the rest of the way. The house had a low wall out front, enclosing three feet of front garden. Except it wasn’t a garden just a pile of black bin bags and cardboard boxes. I knocked on the door. I waited. Knocked again. The door opened. A girl stepped out. She was thin. Wearing skinny black jeans held up with a leather belt, round what should have been her hips. She had none. Her legs and arms, just sticks. A short black leather jacket draped her tiny shoulders. She looked at me, and, without words, apologised for existing. I smiled at her, friendly like. Nervously she looked up, down and into her hand bag. “Sorry do I know you?” she eyed me sideways, suspiciously.

“I’m looking for Pegden.”

“Oh he’s… I don’t suppose you’ve got a couple of quid.. I’m a bit short right now.”

I fetched some change out of my pocket, it was about two pounds maybe a few pence more. I gave it her.

“Thank you so much. You didn’t have to. Pegden’s upstairs on the left.” She turned aound to count the change. “Come back anytime.” She called back at me. “Maybe we could get a drink.” She didn’t sound like she needed another drink.

I went through the open door and up the stairs. The air was stale and the walls dirty. The stair carpets long since gone and my footsteps echoed round the hallway.

At the top of the stairs were two doors one had a Yale lock. I guessed that was Pegdens gaff. I knocked on the door.

 

Pegden Part 3

 

It was a few weeks before I saw Pegden again. We called him Pegden but that was his surname. He never revealed his first name. I guessed it was because it was a terrible first name for a man of mystery and adventure. After he insisted, “It’s Pegden. Just Pegden.” I never asked again.

I was at the Peterborough Beer festival 2007 lining up a group shot of drunken happy smiling faces, when Pegden leaps in front of my camera like a circus clown. A big smile on his face.

I took the last photo and “For fucks sake Pegden. How are you? Where’ve you been?”

“I’m good mate. Been here and there. Mostly there, know what I mean? ha ha.”

“But your trouble. You know the deal?”

He looked at me blankly, “What?”

“The Welland, Stanground. The money you owed.”

“Oh that. Yeah man, that was sweet, did the deal. My man in the Welland got what he wanted, paid off the guy. Slapped that fucker right in his hand. Dosh! ‘take that bastard, we’re square.’ Jus’ like that. And I got a bit of spending money left over for myself. As I say, sweet as.”

“Well I was a bit worried.”

“Jeez you know me. Always land on my feet me. Come on have a beer. I’m buying.”

“I can’t take photos and hold a pint at the same time.”

“Well don’t take photos then. Ya fuckin’ eejit. Just drink.”

“Oh OK.”

Pegden wanders off to the bar. He didn’t bother which section of the bar. To him it was just a bar, beer is beer. He comes back with two pints.

“Whatcha got Pegden?”

“Beer, whaddya think? Get it down ya.”

“..and errr where did the glass come from?”

“You ask a lot of questions for someone getting a free beer. I found it alright? Anything else you wanna know?” I did, but I didn't

“The deal. What happened?”

“It was a one off deal, to get me out the shit is all. So I got to Stanground, met up with the guy. He looked over the product. Decided it was kosher and handed over the money. Nice guy actually, you wouldn't think he was a major dealer. He lived in a nice house, not too big. Regular car in the drive. He's got kids. but, you know, I’m not making a habit of it. I made the deal, it worked, it all went smoothly, end of.”

I knew not to press him any further on the subject “So whatcha been up to then?”

"Well then. Funny you should ask. I've got to tell you about..." Pegden, now in his element, and over the space of more beers, treated me to more of his tales of drink, debauchery and adventure, before I staggered off home to Eastfield Road.

TBC

 

 Pegden Part 2

I’m bored. My thumbs are discos dancing, I work my index fingers into the routine. Denise had taught me this one day when we were bored in the pub. She was 19, 5 foot four, brown hair in a bob, brown eyes… and with such a cute innocence, you wished the devil would corrupt her. We sat in the pub, on the bench seats, music came out of the speakers and suddenly her fingers start dancing. I was mesmerised. How can a girl make finger dancing so sensual? Patiently she slowed down her moves so I could see what she was doing. I still do finger disco to this day when I’m bored, but forty years later I still haven’t got the hang of it, it looks kind of dorky.

I sometimes think of Denise. Last I heard she was living in Leeds. She went there after her brother blew his own brains out with a 9mm pistol. Our relationship took a dive after that. It's not something you just brush off and carry on. She couldn’t cope with anything let alone a relationship. Her parents split up and her father died of a broken heart, still sitting in the same armchair he’d been sitting in since the Police came round to inform him and his wife, of their sons suicide.

I look at the news; Tony Blair is resigning as Prime Minister. Good. Prince Harry is going to do a tour in Afghanistan. I wonder if his body guards will go with him. I imagine men in black, with ear pieces and talking into their cuffs, walking behind him whilst everyone else is in camouflage combat gear. The idea makes me smile. But who needs body guards when you have a whole regiment, armed to the teeth, watching your back?

The doorbell rang, Pegden was back. He swings his rucksack, it lands heavily on my desk. “Stage one complete. Mission accomplished.”

“Mission? What’s in the bag?”

“Wanna peak?” a mischevious grin sweeps across his face..

“OK.”

He pulls the toggled rope holding the top of his rucksack closed. Then slowly and gently, like a father lifting a new born baby he lifts something out, but only half way. It’s a big black slab, about an inch thick, with a circular gold sticker on it.

“This, my son, is pure Primo Afghan Black. There’s a lot more in the bag.” He does a quick glance at the door, quickly returns it and pulls the cord tight again.

“That’s a lot of dope. Where did it come from?”

“I have a mate in the artillary, just come back from Afghanistan. S’all I can tell you, without ‘aving to kill ya.”

“What’s stage two then?” I’m intrigued and I want to know everything. My curiousity will get me into trouble one day. Hopefully not today.

“Stage two my old mate, awaits me in Stanground. I know a dealer who’ll take this lot off my hands off my hands. Right smartish. For the right money as well.”

“Presumably he knows you’re coming then?”

“Too right. He won’t want to miss this deal. He’ll wait. Right, I’d better get going it’s a long way to Stanground.”

“I don’t suppose you want a lift?” I can see it now, Mike Da Hat, drug runner. Crashing county lines, Barrelling down Perkins Parkway, Cruising over the town Bridge in my Renault Scenic with thousands of pounds worth of dope stashed in the back.

“Errrr NO! I’m good. Besides we need at least one half decent person left in this town who hasn’t been corrupted.”

"Who? Me?"

"Yes Mr Innocent. When did you last run a red light?"

"I don't."

"Exactly. Mr Clean always has been." He playfully slapped my face and he was gone again. Marching towards the city centre. My career as a drug runner finished, before it had even started.

"I can be bad, " I thought to myself. "I once got the wrong change on the London underground and didn't say anything. Just took the change, thanked the guy and walked. How bad do you have to be to be a drug runner? As bad as Pegden? Except I've never seen him do anything bad. Until today. How bad is bad?"

To be continued

 Pegden Part 1

This particular Wednesday, in the summer of 2007, was quiet, the phone wasn’t ringing and I had time on my hands. I wasn’t bothered, who needs another customer when the sun is shining? The doorbell rang and in walks Pegden. “Aye up!” he says

“Pegden, my man. How’s it going?”

Pegden looks at me sideways head slightly bowed “Not good mate, not good.”

I’ve known Pegden for years, originally from Wakefield, but now in Peterborough. He’s tall and thin, but deceptively strong. He knows how to get out of a scrape. I can’t say he’s the most law abiding friend I’ve ever had, but he’s trustworthy and straight with those who are straight with him. He puts a hand up and musses his short brown hair, it makes no difference, his hair is always a mess. His clothes fit where they touch, hanging on him like they don’t want to be there. “To tell you the truth Mike, I’ve got myself into a bit of a situation.” He nervously rearranges a rucksack on his shoulder.

“Oh mate! What’s happened?” I’m concerned, but nothing about Pegden surprises me, I don’t recall him ever having a decent job, but he always had money for a pint down the pub. I never asked. It’s best not to know; you just chat bollocks over a beer, and don’t get involved. Pegden knows how to tell a story. You just suspend belief and listen to his wild tales of adventure, debauchery, drunken nights and scrapes. You know it’s mostly fantasy, but he does tell a good story, and you have to listen.

“I find I owe a few grand to some guy.” He looks down at his trainers, white with purple stripes, they were doing a little dance all by themselves. A shuffle.

“What guy?” I ask, breaking my own rule.

“Just some guy who wants his money back tomorrow or the situation could escalate into something I’d rather it didn’t.”

“Shit! I wish I could help you out but…” I tailed off, hoping he wasn’t going to ask for money I didn’t have.

“It’s OK I don’t want any money or owt. I’ve got a deal going down on The Welland. I was just passing. Thought I’d stick my head in the door, say ‘Hello’ like.”

“You wanna lift? My car’s just outside. I can take you to Welland.”

“Best not eh? You don’t want to be anywhere near me for this one. I’ll walk. Thanks anyway.”

He slings his rucksack over his shoulder and walks out. I watch him as he walks up Eastfield Road. In five minutes he’ll be at the Regional College, in ten, Eastfield cemetery. Welland, another ten or fifteen minutes. A warm gust of wind and pollen from the conifers across the road, blew like smoke. Pegden had already got past Jacqui’s house and still walking. I went back inside to shuffle a few papers on my desk and rearrange my pen jar. It was a quiet day.

TBC

The Repurposed Crack House

After the police raided a few times and camped outside the crack house for a while. The crackheads were gone. The landlord leapt in and stripped the house of all the furniture. Ripped and stained sofas and armchairs piled up outside. Mattresses that could harbour new life topped the pile. The refuse truck turned up and each item was crushed in the jaws of the truck. I enjoyed watching that. Even knowing that even the poorest would turn their noses up. I felt a little twinge as another piece of furniture was destroyed. Then there was silence.
A few days alter a team of painters and odd job men moved in making the house ready to rent. They were swift.  It's surprising how fast an empty house can be painted and turned round.
Silence again.
We never saw who moved in. No one saw any furniture taken in. There was no sign of life. Just tin foil at the windows. I suspect a Marijuana farm. It wont be the first in Peterborough.
The last one, I knew about, in Padholme Road, was tended by two Vietnamese guys, who sat about the house in T-shirt and shorts tending the plants and making sure the fans and lights kept working. They never left the house. Actually they eventually did, in handcuffs. But that's a calculated risk. If they can go unnoticed for three months that's a harvest in the bag. Six months another harvest. the longer they can continue the bigger the profits because the lights and fans and watering systems will already be paid for by the previous harvests.
I walk past the crack house... sorry marijuana farm, everyday. Still no sign of life. Probably for the best to keep a low profile.

Sinking into a sea of empties

I struggle through the door with a speaker and microphone stand, Dill is already at the bar. I hear him ask for "Two pints of Stella and two double vodka and limes."
"Shit Dill. I can't drink that before going on stage."
"No mate this is for me. What do you want?"
We've driven up country for a gig, I'm on guitar and Dill is playing bass. It's a country pub nothing special but £90 is £90. and I'll sing and play to whoever wants to listen or pay me. I finish setting up and sound checking.
Dill says "I'm going outside for a smoke."
"No Dill NO. Not before we play."
"It's OK I'll make it a light one, just enough to settle myself down. Come one, come and talk with me."
Outside in the beer garden we find a table in the far corner. It's a warm pleasant summer evening and there's still light in the sky. Dill gets out his tin and takes out a paper. He rummages about in his tobacco pulling and stretching it before laying a strip down, then he fetches out a  small grubby zip lock plastic bag and brown stained fingers pull out of it his weed which he liberally sprinkles over the tobacco. I take a breath and grit my teeth I've seen him do this many times and this is not a light one. He knocks back one of his Vodka limes in one and immediately takes a mouthful of the Stella to chase it down, before going back to rolling his joint. Finally after shaping and moulding he's happy with it and sits back and lights up. He takes a long slow deep pull on his joint and holds his breath, he looks at me and says in that voice he uses where he's trying to speak without exhaling, "You want some........  No.... thought so....... I had to ask." He's visibly more relaxed and drinks some more of his Stella.
"we ought to be going in and starting." I say
"yeah yeah in a minute. Relax you've got plenty of time. I've got these drinks to finish."
"Bring them with you."
"Nah too much to carry I'll drink them  now and catch up with you. You go on in I'll be there in a minute."
Back in the Pub Denise, my girl friend, tells me the Landlord has been asking where we were.  I look across at the bar and give the Landlord the thumbs up. Grabbing my guitar I sit down on my high stool and do the final tuning before we start. I lean forward "Denise go and fetch  Dill. Tell we're on."
To kill time I rearrange the microphone stand check my leads.
Denise returns looking worried. "Looks like you're on your own."
"What? Where's Dill?"
"He's wasted. He can barely stand never mind play bass."
"Damn I knew it."
"Can you do this by yourself?"
"I'm going to have to. You go make sure the boy is OK. I 'll look after this end."
This almost the final straw for me. I couldn't do it anymore, I couldn't watch my best friend destroy himself any more.. Many times we have sat in his music room drinking and chatting, playing music until he took to drugs. I watched his sparkle fade, I watched his skin go grey, I watched his fingers turn brown, I begged him to stop. I pleaded with him. His marriage was on a terminal downward spiral, a war of attrition. The raft of empty beer cans  thrown on the floor got deeper. Plagues of fruit flies rose up as you waded through the sea of cans. I tried to tidy up once he pointed a gun at me and said simply "NO!"
I walked out of his house and never went back.
Through the grapevine I heard he lost his job, his drug taking got worse and he stopped going out. He sank into deep depression.
Dill has just recently resurfaced, this time asking for help. It's been 11 months since he last left his house. I invited him to stay with us for the weekend. He replied to my invitation this morning "I'm not fit enough to venture out right now, but as a plus I have managed 24 hours dry."

Why did the Bantam cross the road?

My man bursts through the door. His hair disheveled and and a wry grin on his face. Under his arm is a black speckled Bantam. he stands swaying, vaguely proud of himself. He's begging me to ask the question without him saying a word. I give in.
"Why have you got a chicken under your arm?"
"It was crossing the road." he chuckled. I knew I should not have asked and I absolutely refused to ask the next obvious question. He's mellow, he smells of dope. His mouth is loose and floppy and the words tumble out like butterflies in the wind. "I got my girl to stop the traffic while I dived in and grabbed the bastard." he stopped looked up at the ceiling as if suddenly interested in cobwebs,"She nearly got run over."
"Spliff?"
"Don't mind if I do? What you offering? It's not like you though."
"No had the girl had a spliff?"  But it was like asking someone if they had a cup of tea or coffee with breakfast, of course.
"Errr yeah but she ran out all the same, stopped the cars. while I chased this little bugger. It's very friendly. So I took it home."
"What with your dogs?"
"Ahhhhh the dogs. Hmmmm they were eyeing it up. You could tell. They were 'aving that. No two ways."
"So what are you going to do with it?"
"Well...." he stopped to consider his words, which words hmmmm so many words, which of them can I remember? ".,,, a few friends wanted to take it off my hands but it would only last until Sunday lunch."
"It's a Bantam there's no meat on it."
"You knows it bro.... You fucking knows it."
"So?"
"I'm taking it to the Vets."
"They don't microchip chickens."
"Nah they'll send it to a chicken sanctuary. It'll be looked after and cared for. It will have a good life. That's what we all want isn't it?"
"I guess. Do chicken sanctuary s exist. Are they a thing?"
"Sure. Of course they do." I let that one go. He believed it. Why crush him when he's on a high? "Hey look this Bantam loves me. It's so friendly. Doesn't struggle. Look I can do this..." and he hold the chicken to his face, it pecks at his lips. That's him made up. In a world of drugs and alcohol, crime and instant retribution, even a chicken can show love. "..you see that?"
"Yes. You have a way with animals."
"They don't fuck you over. They're honest."
For all his faults, his alcoholism and the drug abuse I can't fault him for his humanity. He loves his dogs, he loves animals and now he loves Bantams. He is polite, well spoken and generous with the little he has. His language is liberally sprinkled with profanities, I filter them out.
"Well I'd better get this little beauty to the vets then." he says.
"Well you can't hold it all day."
"No. It'll be OK won't it?"
I reassure him "Of course. They'll see it right."
"That's what I thought. I'd better go then. I'm swinging by the offy on the way back. You want anything?"
"No I'm good thanks."
As for why the chicken wanted to cross the road, I guess we'll never know. Maybe the grass was greener.

Life on the back seat

It's cold and the start of another week. I drive Zed to work. Pulling up I notice the window is slightly open on an abandoned car. A black face peers out and a hand waves.
"Who's that?"
"That's Moses, he sleeps there sometimes."
"In that car?"
"When he hasn't anywhere else to go. Which is quite often. He helps us out sometimes."
"What? He works for you?"
"No, he just helps out sometimes. Once we let him sleep in the back of one of our lorries."
Moses waves again, I see on his other hand he has a bright red boxing glove, I don't even want to think why? it's too early. He has a big smile on his face. I wave back. He holds up a costa cup as if to say "life is good, I have coffee." For someone reduced to sleeping in the back of an abandoned car he seems very happy.
Zed unlocks the door and walks in turning round to wave goodbye. I pull away, in my rear view I see Moses get out the car and walk to Zeds door.  Zed will give him more coffee and breakfast. I did wonder why she took the box of Alpen to work.

Life in the slow lane

I had for the corner shop to get my paper. Mrs Slow is on the till. My heart sinks. The queue is already five people deep. I grab my paper and join the queue. It's painful to watch her doing everything in slow motion, slowly, methodically analysing each item carefully before presenting it to the bar code reader. Nothing happens. She turns the item round slowly. Still nothing. She pulls the item closer to herself to have a good look at it all round to find the bar code. She can't find it. Her hand is covering it. Eventually she finds it and thinking very carefully decides which way round to hold the item. The reader beeps. She then decides how she is going to place the scanned item in the bag. People in front of me are tapping their feet, shuffling and generally seething quietly. It takes what seems like hours to scan the four items. Then we get to the money. Decisions decisions what combination of coins would be most appropriate to give to the customer. She selects a few coins thinks better of it, drops them back in the till  and selects a few more, then counts them from one hand to the other and counts them again slowly into the waiting customers hand. We're done hooray"! Next. But no she has to enquire about the customers children. Internally I'm screaming, "For Gods sake..." The customer well aware of the queue behind her is trying to leave but Mrs Slow leans over the top of the till to impart more words of comfort and sympathy. Fi9nally she customer drags herself away from the pointless conversation and Mrs Slow steadies herself before looking up to the next customer who sprints forward as fast as possible throwing his two packets of chocolate and a can of drink onto the counter. his speed in unnecessary. it wont make any difference. it will still take ten minutes to scan three items. I muse that at this rate I'll have time to read all five sections of the paper, do the crossword and the soduko and still have time to return the paper to the shelf and leave before I get to pay. By now there are five more customers behind me. Mrs Slow looks up at the lengthening queue and places her hand under the counter and rings a bell for assistance. No one comes, they are all behind the mirror door laughing.
Eventually, just as I am losing the will to live, I arrive at the front of the queue. I give her the exact money £2.20. She counts it carefully, very carefully, there's four five pence pieces, I couldn't have made it harder for her. She looks up and nods I'm halfway to the door, "Excuse me." she calls, "would you like your receipt?"
"No." As I leave I see her carefully screwing up the receipt and looking for a bin to throw it in. I don't know if she found one.
I leave the shop my man is coming down he road to collect his breakfast I say "Mrs Slow is on the till."
He spins round "Polish shop then."
"You OK?"
"Never better." he replies, "it's all good."
These are not words I normally expect from him. Normally some sort of tragedy has happened in his life."Better go get breakfast then?" I venture.
"Yep Breakfast first then get cracking. I've got loads to do."
But I know  after his normal breakfast of four cans of super strong lager, his day will go to shit. But for now he's relatively chipper and full of the joys of spring even though it's autumn. It wont last.
I carry on home and settle down with my paper. My man walks past my window waving an opened can in one hand, the other three cans dangling from the plastic wrap down by his side. Breakfast is served. I settle back with the crossword "1a Diana giving emphasis when much troubled (10)" Yep that's what he's going to be soon when the beer runs out.

My man has family

My man isn't a particularly big guy, but he has no fear. Whether it's the alcohol or the drugs I don't know. He walks the streets with confidence. But trouble inevitably finds him. He wont back down. he wont look the other way, if someone gives him shit he'll deal it straight back at them and damn the consequences. He will disappear for a week or two and come back announcing his return from yet another hospital visit where they've patched him up again.
I once asked him why he keeps insisting on getting into fights. He gave me a hard stare as if I'd insulted him "You think I can't look after myself?" he snarled.
"Well you keep getting hurt."
"It's the other four you should worry about, this is nothing to what they got."
I then find out back in the day he was a semi pro boxer. He hasn't boxed in a ring in many years, not since the drugs and alcohol took over his life. So he has no worries about losing his licence, he lost that years ago. He lost a lot.
But despite living in a world of violent drug abusers and drunks, he is a gentle soul, very polite and well spoken, if you ignore the torrent of bad language that inhabits his mouth. He will hold open a door for a lady. He says "please" and "thank you", he will ask after your health despite himself looking like he's on his way to the crem with a made to measure cut price coffin crafted from old pallets. He will offer directions and advice to anyone, even offer me a can of his strong lager. I refuse equally politely, saying "It's a bit early for me."
I often wonder how he came to this. In one of our in depth conversations it transpired his brother is a millionaire living in a loft apartment just off Central Park in New York. He couldn't afford the apartment that actually overlooked Central Park, much to my mans amusement.
I ask him if his brother could help him out financially at all."My brother wouldn't piss on me if I was on fire.... wait... turn that round... I wouldn't piss on him if he was on fire. We don't speak. Never will again I don't suppose."
Well what's he doing in New York?"
"That's where the money is and his trophy wife. " then under his breath almost silently "bitch!" he looks about as if suddenly embarrassed, not wanting to look me in the eye "she fucked me over. The money grabbing gold digging cow. She's the one who turned my brother against me and took all the money for themselves, leaving me with nothing."
"What did they do?"
"It's not important I might tell you one day, I might not.  I'm going to the offy. You want me to get you anything?"
"No thanks I'm good."
He opens my door looks up and down the street and staggers out. He doesn't look back. He doesn't wave. He's already seen someone he needs to catch up with.

Cross dressing your ethnicity

My man walks in. He wearing a thobe, a long shirt favoured by Muslims, it has gold embroidery round the neck and cuffs. No collar. Brown open toed sandals peek out from below his shirt. He stands there silent swaying gently as if trying to take stock of the situation. He mouths a few words bu no words come out. I think he has finally lost it. Grabbing hold of the back of a chair, he steadies himself and tries to speak again. "I got myself arrested again. They've just let me out."
I'm past being shocked at this, my man and the police are on first name terms, he's one of their regulars, he has his own cell and they know he preferences for breakfast, except they don't serve his preference. Extra strong lager is not on the list.  Tea, coffee, toast yes but Tennents Super, no.
I had to ask. "What did you get arrested for this time?"
"I decked a guy." he is not his usual eloquent self, I'll need to dig it out of him.
"Why?"
"He didn't like my shirt."
"The shirt you're wearing now?"
"Yes." He rubs a hand across his unshaven chin then over his head as if bored. "I can wear what the fuck I like."
"Yes but...." I begin.
"He said I was disrespecting his religion by wearing this. I told him he was disrespecting his own religion by threatening me, he wouldn't leave it so I gave him a couple, one in the gut and as he went down another on his chin." he goes to demonstrate and has to quickly grab the back of the chair again, the swift one two was too much for him in his state. "I left him in the road" he continued, " and walked home. The old bill came knocking an I took a ride down to the nick."
"Are you being charged?"
"What do you think?"
"You got let off with a warning?"
"Booooom!"
"So matey boy didn't press charges then?"
"Apparently not, he called the police of course but then didn't press it."
"So why the shirt then?"
"Don't you start."
I dropped it. I guess we'll never know the secret of the thobe.
My man wanders off to find a proper breakfast in a ring pull can.

Being dead was fun for a while

The  results from my Psych Eval are in. Turns out I'm an Introvert. I always told people I was an extrovert based on all the abt shit crazy dangerous stuff I've done. But really, it seems, I'm an Introvert. Thinking about it, it kinda makes sense. I don't like parties. If I go to parties I am either in the garden or in the Kitchen. If I go to a show and there are looking for volounteers to go up on stage I visibly shrink into my chair, at the back, hoping I wont be noticed. I never sit in the front row of anything. Even when I got married I rather hoped I could have a seat at the back and just watch. I could have a body double who stands at the front with my wife and does all the "I do" stuff.
It's my 60th birthday this year. My worst nightmare is someone suggesting we have a party to celebrate it. NO NO NO. You have the party I'll be in my studio working on photos.
The best party that never was thrown for me was when I died. Obvously I didn't die but the local paper erroneously reported my death A load of people started organising a memorial party for me, with music and bands and lots of beer. It would have been great. It would have been my best party ever. Except I wasn't dead. When they found out I was still alive it was cancelled. Everyone assumed I'd be really angry that the Peterborough Evening telegraph could be so insenstive to report my death. But  I wasn't angry at all, I found it hilarious.
So I'm an introvert. I don't like crowds of people. I purposefully live in the arse end of nowhere to be away from people, I don't like parties, I don't do small talk, I switch off and walk away if people are boring me (I am famous for this) but I will quite happily walk on stage with my guitar and play either with my band or play solo. I never had a problem with this but I can't do kareoke.
Zed is my salvation. She is an extrovert. You'd think an introvert living with an extrovert is a recipe for disaster. In fact for me she is a Godsend. We go to the pub. Inevitably Zed gets stuck in talking to all and sundry I hover in the background enjoying my beer. We're seen as a very sociable couple except it's Zed doing all the socialising. She is my buffer to society. She does all the talking I do the listening and watching and analysing, watching body language. Looking around the pub seeing who is doing what, who is talking to who, working out who are genuine friends and who aren't, like scientific research. I never stop until "What do you think  Mikel?"
"What? Sorry. What was that?"
Sometimes I feel like a ghost, enjoying the chatter the people and everything going on but not really being there. Then someone will spoil it by telling me to cheer up and enjoy myself. Well actually I was enjoying myself until the exact moment you told me to cheer up. I might be sitting at the back quietly drinking my beer but honestly,  I'm having a great time.
I think I'll enjoy being dead, a ghost, and no one to tell me to "cheer up".
In the meantime I have Zed to shield me from society, and my dog who doesn't talk much. What more do I need?

The gorgeous stunner

She stood there in clothes she hadn't the energy to put on properly, her top hanging off her upper arm, like she had  no strength left to push it up the rest of the way up over her shoulders, and she'd forgotten how to tie shoe laces. She was floppy like a rag doll swaying this way and that. forward and backward.
"ahhh we goin nah."
"We will be soon." says my man. He'd picked up yet another waif from the streets. he's a sucker for them. Inevitably they'll steal his stuff and rip him off. But in the meantime he has his own house and a roof he can put over their heads. I don't ask what he gets in return but I can guess. Everyone of them is "gorgeous" and "A stunner". It's like a conveyor belt of "gorgeous stunners" who just happen to be homeless addicts. All credit to him he doesn't seem to distinguish between race or colour, black white and all the shades in between, they are all "gorgeous stunners". His only criteria is they tolerate his dogs.
"ahhhm tire nee sleee" she slurred
"I'll get you to into bed soon." he turns and winks at me.
I say "You'd better get her home before you have to carry her home."
"She'll be OK when I get her walking. One too many dragons if you get my meaning."
"Errrr yeaaaah. Look out she's slipping."
He spins round in time to catch her under the arms and steady her "We'd better go" he says.
"I reckon you're right, she's got a lot to sleep off by the look of it. You gonna be OK?"
"Oh yeah. No problem. I'll see you later.... come on sweet heart lets get you home to bed."
They stumble off down the road the girl already half asleep, her head  on his shoulder. her legs moving automatically.

Dog Theft In The Parallel Universe

My main man from the parallel universe  of drugs and depravity, staggers into my gaff. he's stinking of booze and weed. His hair is a mess and his clothes filthy. He's followed by a petite mouthy girl, equally dishevelled and sporting that fashionable heroin chic look. "Tell him then. Tell him. tell him about your dog." she whines in a particularly grating voice.
I look at my man "What about your dog then?"
"It was stolen."
"When? By who?" I ask in my best deeply concerned tone, knowing his dog meant everything to him.
"My ex boyfriend that's who?" pipes up the girl. "You tell him. Go on, tell him what he did."
"Well if you know who took the dog surely you can go round and get it back."
"He aint got it any more. The fucker sold it didden 'ee."
"So he steals your dog and sells it?"
"Yes for money for drugs. he's an addict. My dog stolen an' sold for the price of a hit."
"Hang on your dog is chipped isn't it."
"Yeah but it didn't stop him nicking my dog."
"What are you going to do? Report it to the police?"
"Don't make me laugh. Fucking special branch are not coming round to look for my dog. The only time you call the police is to get a crime number and even then you think twice about getting them involved. We have our own ways of doing things....."
In the parallel universe the police are not even an option. You don't call the law when you're in the habit of breaking it yourself. You find other means of finding justice.
By this time Miss Mouthy is hopping from one foot to another and chewing gum like her life depended on it.
my man continues ".... yeah me and a few mates will go round, and beat the living shite out of him."
"Firm but fair." I say, then venturing. "Maybe a little excessive." Knowing full well that the word excessive is not in their vocabulary. Not in their world.
Miss Mouth still hopping says "Come on you said we'd get some drink."
"Yeah right, OK, in a minute. I'm talking."
"But you said...."
"Shut it. I said in a minute." He turns to me and says his usual "We're going to the offy. You want I get you anything?"
I do my usual "It's OK I'm good thanks."