The sky-blue walls of my cuboid room were an insult to my imagination, the paint colour mocking my freedom, the blue skies I craved. I lay on my bed, reflecting on the injustices that had befallen me through the course of that day.
I’d suffered a run of stroppy customers, all of them wanting the steak pie we rarely had. Their poor attitude had left me feeling ragged. Pat ran the roadhouse with quiet tyranny, never letting me out of her sight, always criticising under her breath. I could never measure up to her exacting, if fluid, as-the-fancy-took-her standards. Then there was Con. Whenever he came in for a customer’s change, it was as much as I could do not to bolt for the toilets with my rag-cloth. Con wasn’t properly adjusted somehow. It was more than just his hand washing. I couldn’t
