It is 7am. He is 12. He is Nigel.
“Get up! I’m not telling you again!” she tells him again.
He is still without motion. Has he passed on? His mother could care less and exits in much dudgeon for harsh toil for little money.
“Wallop!” thunders the door.
Nigel rises in instalments. He cleans teeth, flannels face and assembles the school uniform. The trousers collect in many folds around his shoes. He polishes them on the back of these folds. He has a Lemsip for breakfast, forgets to feed the cat, staggers sneezing down a stairwell and waits with hooligans for the 52 in the cold, sick dawn.
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