The phone rang. (My ring tone is the crowd in the Bobby Moore stand at West Ham singing ‘I’m forever blowing bubbles’.) I was lying on a mattress on the floor. Early morning sun was streaming in through tall windows. A cat, one of those skinny, sharply intelligent-looking ones, was vigorously grooming itself near my feet. I found the phone on a nearby table, next to an unfinished glass of whisky. I took a sip of the whisky and caught the call before it went to answer phone. Trev.
‘Hey, Dude!’ he yelled, clearly in cracking form this fine morning. I hadn’t spoken to Trev on the phone or in the flesh since last year. It was marvellous to hear his voice again. ‘I’ve got a favour to ask,’ he yelled. ‘You know I have a bit of trouble spelling sometimes?’
He does and he’s more self-conscious about it than he should be.
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