Chapter Thirteen
Inspiration
One woman’s inspirations is another man’s curse
Later the same night, Deloris sat in her bed with a whisky and the Smiths playing.
Girlfriend in a coma I know it’s serious . . .
She thought of George, Charlie, and that big mouth Frank. She sculled her whisky and poured another. Don’t let the bastards grind you down, she told herself, then pulled out her vibrator.
Bye bye baby goodbye . . .
George was also in bed with a large whisky reflecting on the afternoon. In five minutes, that posh attractive woman had made mincemeat of him—in his own caravan park.
“My son has more talent in his left ear than the rest of your panto players put together,” she snapped, “and he has the, how you say, legs to die for.”
He drained his whisky and poured another.
Her sli
