The last time I received good news was Tuesday 21st October 1986. On that occasion it was a letter on the dining room table containing my provisional bicycle certificate and a badge. “RSA Approved!” it beamed above a huge blue tick. Since then my letterbox, telephone and email has existed for no other purpose than allowing misery an easy entrance into my life. Today was no exception.
“Hmmm” I said, dragging the telephone receiver into bed and under the covers with me.
“Tristram it's Verity. Now you mustn't hang up, this is serious! It's John, he's gotten a whole lot worse.” At those words I sat bolt upright under the blanket; it smelt of stale sperm. “Worse?" I asked "In what way? I didn't think he could get ANY worse!” I heard the flick of a lighter then the feint kiss of lips as she withdrew her cigarette and inhaled. Through a lungful of smoke, she calmly said “He's turned orange.”