4th September 2009
“Why did you try to murder my boyfriend?”
“Wow,” Ali said, and slid his hand around Yazid’s elbow. “Um. Suddenly I don’t want jeans.”
Yazid stared in fascination at the rowing couple—by the looks of it, a mother and a right Vicky Pollard of a daughter—but allowed himself to be tugged away. Ali had donated blood that morning, and insisted on a shopping trip as recovery. Sounded bogus to Yazid, but hey, random days off work to spend with the boyfriend…he hadn’t argued too hard.
“We don’t have domestics,” he told Ali.
“Uh, good?” Ali asked. “C’mon, here.”
Yazid was towed into another shop, also full of jeans, but further away from the increasingly loud screaming match. Shopping centres were confusing like that. Multiple shops for exactly the same thing.
“We need dome
