Butterflies on shoulders, daisies on hips; every woman here sported the kind of tattoo that wouldn’t punish her in her fifties. The men weren’t much different; a bit of sleeve work here and there, proudly on show in the summer sun, but nothing that couldn’t be hidden by a clean white shirt on Monday morning.
The smell of skunk mingled with wood smoke, sea salt and sun block.
By everyone else’s definition she loved him. Just not her own.
The paper tore and suddenly I had a finger up my arse. Could the day get any better?
The cloud had thickened, the sky taking on the colour and texture of every blanket Her Majesty had ever issued me.
She had become the physical embodiment of my responsibility and I couldn’t help but resent her for it
It was good to find things hadn’t changed. Including, it turned out, my baser instincts.
All I could taste was oak and smoke and acid reflux
He’s reached the age where his nostalgia is not for my childhood, but his own.
She told some story about single casks and small batch distillers and blah blah blah whisky pointlessness. There’s nothing worse than a connoisseur. I sat and smoked and sipped my drink as she went on, filling the air with vapid small talk and clouds of smoke.