Low life | 23 June 2012

I was already braking before I realised that it was Tom standing by the side of the road with his thumb out. Tom loves me. He got in and leant across and wordlessly clasped me to his bosom. He’s one of those small guys whom God made small because He is a compassionate God and He wanted to limit the damage. Small but hard, Tom is, and with huge hands. In a clinch he feels as if he’s made of steel plate. He stank of Stella. His stubbly chin on my neck felt like 80 grain sandpaper. ‘Where to, chief?’ I said.

He was hitchhiking over to his ex-wife’s new place to see her and the kids and give them all a treat on Father’s Day, he said virtuously. Maybe he’d do a bit of tiling in the bathroom while he was there, he added. He was off to a bad start, though, because he’d stayed too long in the pub and was already two hours late for the roast dinner she’d promised.