Yes, my old mum had the greatest difficulty understanding prize-winning books by “Simon Rusty”, but even her most dogmatic opinions now stood loud and proud above the sound-bite hypocrisies of our Age. A monument in a desert.
* * *
The car careered on through the dismal streets, stampeding cocky sixth formers into the gutters as their gang mentality and instilled insolence gave way for the first time to primordial fear. Carol defended their youthful exuberance and misunderstood charms, while I prosecuted their arrogant disrespect and herd instincts, and we sped towards her workplace as two enemies in the same tank. She left the car without a word, clicked her neck like Mike Tyson going into the first round of a championship bout, and prepared her public self for a captive audience of blue-collar admirers. “Isn’t that the bloke who gave you a lift home the other night?” I said, nodding towards a smart, urbane young man in the well-cut linen jacket of a solicitor on holiday. “Yes” she cooed, swivelling her eyes between his chinos and my battlescarred jeans, and back again. “He’s the factory van driver isn’t he?” I commented. “So what?” she snapped, and marched off. Arriving back home, I observed a police car outside our house and an irate looking troglodyte stomping up and down the street as though he owned it. Two policemen and the troglodyte converged on me when I parked in the driveway, and I soon deduced that all was not well. I recalled the previous evening when I had disturbed two hooded youths wandering about our garden with spray canisters, and knew instantly that I had somehow offended their delicate sensibilities, exposing me to the
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