Thirty-One – 'Call me, Kate, deary'You might wonder how one could hate a singing dancing girl who insisted, with glee, you call her by her first name while she called you, 'deary'. Let me make it clear. Of all those whores up until that moment, I hated this one most of all. My mother, I may have hinted, was a pathetic drunk. Always had her empty head inside a bottle, or a gin glass, or a beer tumbler. Always. The only exceptions were the times she was fornicating with strangers she'd picked up in pubs, the lodging houses between which we bounced, or the gutters that separated them.
If she wasn't drinking or fornicating (or contemplating an avenue to either or both), she was sobering up. That's when her attentions fell on me. That's when I caught hell for all she was and was not. When the
