Mums the word with Janet Christie
Knowing the only way to avoid going myself and wandering ten paces behind him crying was to flee, I went to New York on a work trip and threw myself into the distractions of the Big Apple.
Waiting on my return, piled in front of the washing machine, was an entire T in the Ps-worth of gear; wellies, sleeping bags, rags. Joggers have been in and out more times than Kerry Katona’s belly button and still the mud is ingrained. Then there’s the T-shirt that’s taken up residence in a bowl of bleach beside the sink, a stain darkening the collar.
“What is this anyway?” I ask him. “Sauce? Vomit? Blood?”
“No,” he says with a world-weary air. “It’s piss.”
“Urine! There? Were you drinking it?!”
“No,” sigh. “People throw bottles of it around.”
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Hide Ad“Were you hit on the head?” I gasp. His fontanelle has been closed 17 years now but for me, his head is still a fuzzy little peach.
“For God’s sake. We weren’t mugged, raped, arrested, sold dodgy drugs or any of the things you said would happen.”
“You’re right. You’re sensible. I need to relax, chill, lighten up.”
“You do.”
“Ok.”
“Cool. But what are poppers?”
Oh God.