The sky is still blue and it is eight thirty five pm.
At home my father tells me about playing agony uncle. He says, a girl came in weeping and pregnant, and her milk soppy boyfriend had abandoned her. So in half an hour over a cup of tea he made her laugh, arranged her finances and a flat.
Milk soppy, I asked? A milk sop, he says, and I notice white fuzzy hairs poking from his ears like cotton wool.
I think perhaps they were testing me, so I examine my aubergine bake carefully and laugh when he says milk soppy. He seems very pleased with himself. I remind myself of being six and coming home from school after French club with two sandwiches left, which I threw away in the little bin in the bathroom upstairs. I came back down the stairs slowly, and whistling, which gave me away, and I spent the rest of the day banished to my room.
On the way back I sat inexplicably in first class, which is no different to second class only they have ineffectual little yellow lights, and a woman who offers hot drinks.
Goddamn Right 