Mother’s Day dawned with the return of the Prodigal Son.
One toasted, apple and apricot sausage sandwich disappeared in three gulps, as did the next one. Minutes later and he was off, en route for Hong Kong and the Cathay Pacific Sevens. But not before he had presented me with a very chi-chi basket of truffles from chocolat chocolat, a thrilling improvement on the Psycho mug he gave me for Christmas. He was lucky to find me at the kitchen sink. I had been out verrrry early at my latest discovery – Car Boot Heaven at the Nag’s Head.
A young man standing in front of a rusting white van sold me a 1920’s Noritake coffee can and saucer for £2.00. His hands shook as he wrapped it in some damp pages from The Mirror. I couldn’t tell you what he looked like. His face was a mass of Maori tattoo, and he didn’t wear it well.
And somehow his Salford stutter belied any trace of Kiwi. I imagined the worst. I saw him drunk, reclining in a leather chair in a parlour in Gothenburg or Rotterdam, a bearded artist crouching over his face with pulsating pen.
I didn’t know where to look.