Last Christmas when I visited my father he seemed like a survivor from that Pogues’ song. He sucked the wishbone and told me long tales of playing cricket and how he bowled my Mam over.
Later he said he remembered crunching beetle husks under foot when he was young. I knew it was more likely beer bottles, smashed when he was smashed.
Before he fell asleep in the chair he mumbled he could feel the sun toasting his forearms and spreading to warm his legs.
But it was only the piss dribbling out—reeking.
Later he said he remembered crunching beetle husks under foot when he was young. I knew it was more likely beer bottles, smashed when he was smashed.
Before he fell asleep in the chair he mumbled he could feel the sun toasting his forearms and spreading to warm his legs.
But it was only the piss dribbling out—reeking.
