Billygean.co.uk

I am crouched on the floor of my bedroom, one hand deep into my rucksack. My hair is dripping went from the shower.

I rummage a bit more. Phone chargers can be so elusive.

Last week I lost the phone charger. It turned out to be in the plug where I left it but this is beside the point. It still made me tidy my room and swear a lot.

“Don’t leave it in Birmingham,” my Dad had said. After all I was only going for one night and this would be a stupid thing to do. And we all know I never do stupid things.

“Take it out of the multi-block as soon as you’re done using it,” he had said.

I did this: phone finished, charger came back with me.

My hand grasps the phone charger at the bottom of my bag and I pull it out through the clothes and hair straighteners. Yes, plural.

I smirk, thinking how organised I’ve become.

I look at my hand.

I am holding a Glade Plug in.

The phone charger remains in Birmingham.

We are in Home Pub. It is comforting.

“Cooking was a nightmare,” I say, referring to my Worst GCSE Grade.

“Why?” S says, sipping his pint. “Free choice every week. Make shortbread every week.”

“I was not this smart,” I say.

“It’s true,” C says, folding his arms. “I made fruit salan a lot. Chop banana. Add orange juice. And there you are.”

“Sandwiches were easy,” I say, watching a drop or water run down the side of my coke and onto the table.

“Sandwiches?” S says, raising his eyebrows.

“Yes, did you not make sandwiches?”

“SANDWICHES?”

“Yes.”

“Er, no, I was not in the remedial cooking class.”