‘Not my life mapped out for me.’
‘It’s that bad?’
‘Worse. We’re going shopping at Meadowhall tomorrow.’
Meadowhall is Sheffield’s busiest shopping centre.
I scope some hombre taking a bead on us from the roof of the saloon and my Winchester cracks out two shots; the dude is coyote meat before he hits the dirt. ‘That’s real tough, pardner,’ I say, but secretly I’m wondering if I don’t see the hand of justice in this. Diesel’s been led on by his cock. He’s not thought about how this irresponsible act might affect The Four Horsemen – who appear now to be galloping towards us, guns blazing – and what’s more, he’s not committed his crime with somebody who would actually be worth it, Rosalind Chandler for example, but with The Minger, Lauren Sykes. I try to offer what advice and consolation I can, but there’s not a lot I can say. Diesel has made his bed and now he’ll just have to lie in it. With Lauren Sykes, it looks like. It’s a lesson for us all.
At the back of the house the kitchen light is illuminating a trapezoid of stripy lawn and Garcia, who is sitting in the middle of it, licking his balls. This might be a good time to mention that Garcia is GD’s black and white collie dog. In the bright kitchen GD and Dad appear to be arguing. It’s not unusual and it’s not surprising: in terms of dress and lifestyle, likes and dislikes, they’re as different as chalk and chutney. I think it might be down to genes, the ones that skip a generation especially. Or maybe it’s just a matter of one generation rebelling against the last. GD’s own rebellion was as wild as his upbringing was strict. And maybe because of that, my dad’s made sure he’s as different from GD as possible. Maybe.
‘That dog stays out of this house,’ my father – nattily attired in a new beige dressing gown and his crisply-ironed green striped pyjamas – is saying, ‘until it has learned not to, ah, do his business in the f-f-flaming shoe cupboard.’
GD, wearing his big old jeans and the starburst tee shirt which pulls focus to his considerable paunch, is making a hot drink for Nana. He takes her one up before he retires to the camper for the night. He can’t sleep in this house, where everythingis in its place and the only part which hasn’t had the life sucked out of it is my bedroom, an agreed no-go area for parents in which there is plenty of life, even if most of it may be growing on unwashed plates and old pizza boxes.
‘He can stay with me in the van,’ GD is saying. ‘At least he won’t feel unwanted there.’
They take no notice of me as I check out the fridge before helping myself to a bowl of Dad’s All-Bran and sitting down at the kitchen table. ‘This is not about the dog,’ Dad’s saying. ‘And it’s not about that blasted monstrosity you insist on parking in front of the house. It’s time we talked about Mum.’
‘Ruth is where she wants to be, and that’s at home, with me,’ GD says. ‘I thought this was all settled. I’ll bring her in for treatment but the hospital is not going to have her, Charlie.’
Dad has started to unload the dishwasher. He can’t just talk and he can’t just watch TV for that matter, he always has to be doing something else as well. God knows what he does while he has sex. Mental note: really must stop thinking about parents having sex. He’s sorting cutlery into the drawer as he says, ‘But, Dad, you must see that’s not right?’ (With GD being so young at heart and Dad so old before his time, it seems arse-about-face whenever Charles Johnson calls GD, Dad.) ‘She needs a proper, supervised medical regimen, close observation, palliative care.’
‘And waking every four hours for her obs and poked and prodded and talked about like she was just an interesting case? That’s not what I want for my Ruth, Charlie, and it’s not what you should want, either. And if you knew your mother like I do, you’d appreciate that.’
‘But
‘It’s that bad?’
‘Worse. We’re going shopping at Meadowhall tomorrow.’
Meadowhall is Sheffield’s busiest shopping centre.
I scope some hombre taking a bead on us from the roof of the saloon and my Winchester cracks out two shots; the dude is coyote meat before he hits the dirt. ‘That’s real tough, pardner,’ I say, but secretly I’m wondering if I don’t see the hand of justice in this. Diesel’s been led on by his cock. He’s not thought about how this irresponsible act might affect The Four Horsemen – who appear now to be galloping towards us, guns blazing – and what’s more, he’s not committed his crime with somebody who would actually be worth it, Rosalind Chandler for example, but with The Minger, Lauren Sykes. I try to offer what advice and consolation I can, but there’s not a lot I can say. Diesel has made his bed and now he’ll just have to lie in it. With Lauren Sykes, it looks like. It’s a lesson for us all.
At the back of the house the kitchen light is illuminating a trapezoid of stripy lawn and Garcia, who is sitting in the middle of it, licking his balls. This might be a good time to mention that Garcia is GD’s black and white collie dog. In the bright kitchen GD and Dad appear to be arguing. It’s not unusual and it’s not surprising: in terms of dress and lifestyle, likes and dislikes, they’re as different as chalk and chutney. I think it might be down to genes, the ones that skip a generation especially. Or maybe it’s just a matter of one generation rebelling against the last. GD’s own rebellion was as wild as his upbringing was strict. And maybe because of that, my dad’s made sure he’s as different from GD as possible. Maybe.
‘That dog stays out of this house,’ my father – nattily attired in a new beige dressing gown and his crisply-ironed green striped pyjamas – is saying, ‘until it has learned not to, ah, do his business in the f-f-flaming shoe cupboard.’
GD, wearing his big old jeans and the starburst tee shirt which pulls focus to his considerable paunch, is making a hot drink for Nana. He takes her one up before he retires to the camper for the night. He can’t sleep in this house, where everythingis in its place and the only part which hasn’t had the life sucked out of it is my bedroom, an agreed no-go area for parents in which there is plenty of life, even if most of it may be growing on unwashed plates and old pizza boxes.
‘He can stay with me in the van,’ GD is saying. ‘At least he won’t feel unwanted there.’
They take no notice of me as I check out the fridge before helping myself to a bowl of Dad’s All-Bran and sitting down at the kitchen table. ‘This is not about the dog,’ Dad’s saying. ‘And it’s not about that blasted monstrosity you insist on parking in front of the house. It’s time we talked about Mum.’
‘Ruth is where she wants to be, and that’s at home, with me,’ GD says. ‘I thought this was all settled. I’ll bring her in for treatment but the hospital is not going to have her, Charlie.’
Dad has started to unload the dishwasher. He can’t just talk and he can’t just watch TV for that matter, he always has to be doing something else as well. God knows what he does while he has sex. Mental note: really must stop thinking about parents having sex. He’s sorting cutlery into the drawer as he says, ‘But, Dad, you must see that’s not right?’ (With GD being so young at heart and Dad so old before his time, it seems arse-about-face whenever Charles Johnson calls GD, Dad.) ‘She needs a proper, supervised medical regimen, close observation, palliative care.’
‘And waking every four hours for her obs and poked and prodded and talked about like she was just an interesting case? That’s not what I want for my Ruth, Charlie, and it’s not what you should want, either. And if you knew your mother like I do, you’d appreciate that.’
‘But
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