I was having breakfast in the GBC, the neon nightmare.
Two fried eggs
Fat heartaches sausages
Fried tomatoes (at the green café)
Fried mushrooms
Black pudding
Kidding about the last one
Pot of scalding tea.
You can’t, just can’t, have coffee with a fry-up.
Halfway through this feast, a shadow fell over me. Looked up.
Emily.
Pissed, in the American sense, launched,
“What did I tell you, eh? Follow my lead, what was not to understand about that?”
I put my fork down. It’s impolite to point with it, never mind sticking it in her f*****g eyes. I said, quietly,
“F-u-c-k off.”
Worked.
She went docile, said,
“If I could just sit a moment.”
She reached into her bag, took out an e-cig, and I spotted a book, part of the title, about grammar, by
Sally Wallace.
WTF?
Sally Wallace,
