george

Gets up at half past five. Always has things to do. Wakes me up at seven. Has cooked me breakfast. Sausage, mushrooms, an egg, tomatoes, fried bread, toast. Sometimes bacon, sometimes black pudding. Makes me tea. Washes up. Polishes the arch of the sole of his shoes. Calls me soldier. Walks me out into the crisp Rayners Lane air as I head off to work. Used to say, when I was a child: Psssh! You’re a horse