There follows an extract from something I'm trying to write -
I should have said – I wasn’t wearing any trousers. And there was blood, a CRIMSON POOL and dark and dried about my left knee like I was a bastard soldier. No trousers. Just boxer shorts. Feet covered in plastic bags. My friend in the telephone box. And waiting for Dad. An unsual Sunday morning. That’s the set up.
If you passed in your Ford Mondeo, you wouldn't see much to my face. It was blank and it was blank because I was tired and disappointed and fed up with Dave and I knew that accompanying Dad in the inevitable Volvo was an almighty bollocking.