Chapter 3

And then there he was, the man I’d been waiting for. Did I say his hair was iron grey? If I hadn’t been too busy playing my saxophone I’d have bitten my tongue. Pure silver, that hair was, and underneath it, his face looked shockingly young: clean lines, chiselled jaw with just a shade of stubble. I reckoned he’d be about my dad’s age: perfect. I’ve always gone for older blokes—there’s a lot to be said for an experienced man. Most of it gasped out in words of one syllable when you’re a mite distracted at the time. He was shorter than me, but muscular, heavy-set. Probably fucked like a pile driver…Did I say that? My mum would make me wash my mouth out.

My aunties would hold me down and wash it out themselves.