During the war, brock was put out regularly to be picked up and fed to the pigs of the near-by farm.
I don’t know or can’t remember Brock’s name or how he acquired the nickname, Brock, though I think it’s short from his surname. He was an alcoholic friend of Jim McMahon, an alcoholic friend of mine who’s since died. Brock had mouth cancer and to get rid of it lost a lot of jaw and couldn’t eat. He only had the one tooth anyway. He didn’t know about pureeing food in a blender. I gave him mine with instructions how to use it. He told me he did.
I was surprised to be told he’d married. There’s no accounting for women but… Brock? She was African and gained nationality by the marriage I suppose.
I saw a spot on his nose that reminded me of the cancerous mark a neighbour had had removed and told him to get it seen to.
He stopped me to tell me he had and it was cancerous but not life-threatening.
The other day he told me he’d had titanium implants done and was about to have teeth installed. “About time too,” I said, “You’ve hung onto that one tooth long enough,” that I’d long since recommended he get rid of. He said he’d no teeth now. I laughed. “Get off!” he said, laughing too, “away with you.”