It is Sunday evening. MindReader and I are in our room, surrounded by boxes of his things. And a mini champagne bottle that he brought.
“I can’t believe you no longer work for the NHS,” I say, looking at his good luck gifts: ties and cider.
“It’s weird,” he says. “I worked there the whole time through the law conversion and the LPC. They got me this,” he says, handing me a card.
“Ooh,” I say opening it. “How nice.” I begin reading. “Good luck and nice bum, love Carol?!” I say.
“Oh,” he says, going red.
“Nice bum! She’s been looking at your bum! I mean you bum is very nice but it’s not hers to look at!”
“Billygean,” he says, kissing my forehead. “She’s 63.”
