3
Your name is Nigel Fleming.
You are seventy years old. A fraction older. Age never lies.
Once upon a time you were known by a different name.
A name you no longer use. Or care to remember.
A name you can’t shake off – lashed to an incident you can’t shake off either. An incident you’ve spent half your life coping with.
But you can’t. So you revel in distraction.
You play golf. You’d like to play more often. The pain after eighteen holes is excruciating. So you stick to nine.
You don’t tell anyone about the pain. Or the cause of it.
You are married to a lovely person. Mrs Fleming. Her Christian name escapes you.
You have three children who are no longer children but working-adults-stroke-parents not bothered about old gits like you, thank you very much.
You watch the telly. You
