‘Jack?’
He’d arrived, it wasn’t far from the cooker to the table, and he was already drifting off into a buttock-fondling reverie, so Mandy had to bring him back, fearful of a suspicious amount of movement in his front boxer short department and thinking, slim-fit?
‘What?’ Jack was buying time, using the query as an opportunity to try to remember what he was going to say, without getting caught.
‘You were going to say…?’ Had Mandy forgotten as well? She did look over to Jo.
Jo obliged. ‘Why were you laughing when I mentioned Della?’ Jo was exasperated, and Jack wondered why. He always thought she was a good mumsy, thought back to his own mum, who indeed had been a good mumsy, but was also often exasperated with him; quite unreasonably so, he often thought.
‘Jack?’
Blimey, he’d drifte
