The steps are slippery. That’s what she tells me, as she grudgingly brings my breakfast tray – cold ham and potatoes. There’s one step in particular that gives her trouble. It has a large dip in it, worn away by centuries of feet and covered
You can’t see it in the shot, but just behind her was an empty bottle of champagne we’d been swigging from while we sat on towels, our feet dipping into the sea. We’d had a slight row, both of us a bit squiffy, and she
The boy’s a fool. I still can’t believe my beautiful daughter produced this pimpled buffoon. Though when you look at the human potato she married, it’s no great surprise, I suppose. He’s sent round every week – every week! – for an obligatory Sunday afternoon