“You fell asleep with my hand on your cock.” “Did I? Oh dear, that was impolite of me,” though his hand had gone motionless because he’d fallen asleep as I deduce first, so what’s a boy to do?
He’d taken a bit of blocker and gone back to bed when I left for the library and some Waitrose shopping afterwards. He hadn’t drawn back the curtain and was still in bed though wakeful. I put on Radio 3 at a less quiet volume and asked did he want some lunch. He was querulous about the guinea fowl, saying it was all gristle when it was – not all – fatty skin and going on to ask me to take it off for him. Three times I asked did he want ginger beer with it and on getting no answer gave him none. “Is that mine?” he asked of what was obviously mine. He said he’d answered yes three times. “You missed an opportunity there,” to put me in the wrong, by not going for it himself and injuredly bringing it to the table. He queried why it wasn’t alcoholic and complained it was flat. “It’s still.” He put out the skin for the cat. (Diana’s back! with diabetes.)
He read his book, about Edward I, while I washed up and no word was passed until I asked did he want to go out and pay off Alan for the blockers. He would an hour later. I put the accumulated skin in the cat’s bowl.
John's space 