My mother Agnes, and I.

The scene with Thom had left me agitated. So I took a glass of brandy and wandered around the rooms of my house, trying to see something, anything, from a new angle. Nothing sufficed so I pulled the ladder down and went into the attic. It was here I found a few old photos, including this one of mother and I. An observant reader will notice the soft, oval face of the Kent- Sussex border. I prefer to dwell on the monstrous headgear, clearly indicative of that regions lunacy. Looking closer, you will find that while your attention is directed towards my mother's exposed left breast, I am quietly pointing in the other direction, doing all I can to subvert your interest in my Mum. There is a distance between us, though. She seems to be leaning away from me. Already, the lake is freezing over. You will notice, too, that my back seems a little stiff. Although I am bollock naked, I am trying to look my best. Of course it was thirty years, followed by seven years of therapy, before I loosened up a little. I closed the attic door on myself. In the pitch blackness, I lay down and curled up between the suitcases and the black plastic bags.