We have arrived to collect the normal one and three of his friends from a local church that has been converted into an indoor skate park. He is aghast to see me as I don't usually leave the house on a Saturday. "What are you DOING IN HERE?" he hisses. "Don't speak to anyone." His well-founded fear is that I will humiliate him by attempting to engage one of the organisers in a 'down with the kids'conversation about tattoos or dubstep or how they've missed a trick by calling the place Skaterham and not Sk8terham.
He needn't have worried, because I can't see a thing. It's as dark as Hollister in there and I am wearing sunglasses to placate the hangover that has hauled me out for salty fries dunked in black coffee. We bundle them and their scooters into the car and make for KFC. They all want a popcorn chicken snack box. Little OCD enjoys the way this rolls off the tongue, as he last week enjoyed 'Michael MacIntyre' and the week before 'chicken dhansak' and softly murmers 'popcorn chicken snack box' repeatedly for the rest of the weekend.
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