DailySquashReport.com

Chapter Five

That should have been the end of a very short-lived career in squash. I’d smashed my racquet on the way home. Nothing would induce me near a court again, let alone onto one, I was so pissed off. A couple of weeks later, though, I was approached by one of the teachers, Mr Feather.

“Someone told me you’ve started to play squash, Jolyon. I haven’t seen you down at the courts.”

“Nah, I’ve decided to stick to running. The rules in squash are too complicated.”

“That’s a shame. You’re a good tennis player, aren’t you? And you’re obviously fit. It’s a good mixture. I always have plenty of players who hit the ball well but so few are prepared to knuckle down. Put in the work. You don’t get anywhere in squash without hard work. Sarah Bristow says you really push yourself.”

“You’ve got to want to do it, Mr Feather. And I don’t. It doesn’t suit my temperament. Anyway, the running’s too much fun.”

“Come on. Give it a go. You could at least come down to one of our practice sessions.”

That was how I found myself six weeks later on court with my running nemesis, Ron Clarke. It was the first round of the annual school squash tournament. Mr Feather had been persuasive. The memory of the game with Siobhan had faded. After a week thinking about it I’d started practising with the school under sixteen squad. The game turned out to be so easy. In tennis if you played a weak shot it tended to be end of point. In squash you had a fair chance of getting back into the rally. It might mean scrambling a bit, but I was good at that. I learned that Siobhan’s interpretation of the rules had really been flagrant cheating. There was a logic to the lets and penalty points, and the referee’s response of ‘no let’ was not uncommon. It only took a couple of weeks before I had beaten one of the Colts team.

Ron Clarke was a different proposition though. He played in the senior team, a hobby for him rather than a serious interest, as running was his main sport.

One of the other Colts players commiserated. “You’ve got Ron Clarke? Bad luck. Everyone reckons he’s going to win the whole thing. He’s not first seed because he doesn’t play all the matches. Cross country. He’s classy though. ‘Robin I’ just doesn’t have the shots.”

‘Robin I’, Robin Inglis, played number one in the school team. I’d never seen anyone sweat so much, hardly surprising given the amount of running he did.

Anyway, it was Ron I had to worry about. “Is tripping legal in squash?” I asked with a straight face as we were going on court.

“Don’t waste my time. I’m surprised you bothered to enter. I need to be somewhere else so let’s get this over with.”

“Well, I bothered to enter the Senior Steeplechase.”

I got a look, and we started to warm up. My remark about tripping had just been for the fun of it. I wasn’t too worried about Ron cheating because there were several players in the gallery. I didn’t expect to win, anyway. I was expecting a good lesson.

From the opening points it was clear that a lesson was what I was going to be given, along with as much humiliation as Ron could mete out. I didn’t have a clue where he was going to hit the ball. He would shape to play a short shot and flick his wrist at the last moment to send it to the back. “Nice shot, Ron,” from the gallery. Or he’d turn the face of his racquet when lining up to hit the ball down the wall and produce a short angled shot, impossible to reach unless I’d anticipated it. “Well done, Ronny, boy.” Then he would ponce his way back to the service box with exaggerated condescension, looking up at his watching friends and glaring at me.

I was quickly one game down, eleven one. I left the court to recover my breath and towel off.   

This provoked a reaction from Ron. “Come on, Junior. I told you, I need to get away.”

Piss off, I thought. The rules give me ninety seconds between games and that’s what I’ll take. And I’ll see how long I can make the whole match last.

Depressingly, the second game started the same as the first. More swaggering from Ron to the gallery. I was well down and starting to get upset, more with myself than Ron, when under pressure I completely mistimed a shot and it arced high into the gallery. I was amazed to see my father up there. I’d mentioned the game in an offhand way but never expected he’d come along. Now I wished I hadn’t; it was too embarrassing. As I looked up he mouthed something at me. I made out the word wall. I know, Dad, hit the ball down the wall. You come and have a go. However, I concentrated hard on this in the next point and won it with Ron scrambling around the back of the court. Yesss, that was nice. Infuriatingly in the next point one of my shots jammed out instead of hugging the wall and it was a clear penalty point or ‘stroke’ as I’d learned it was called, to Ron. Then he played two ridiculous fluky drop shots and I’d lost the game.

My father was waiting as I left the court, not what I wanted. “Come on, Dad, this one’s going south, just let me get my breath back.”

“Listen to me, Jolyon. You’ve not lost this. Take a look at him.”

Ron had also come off court this time, breathing heavily.

“He really had to try in that game. And that point, the one where you rallied at two seven, he didn’t like that. Did you notice, he went for a couple of silly shots after that. He fluked them but that won’t last.

“Now, you have to show him at the start of this game. He’s got to know, this is going to be hard. You’re fit enough, I can see the way you’re moving. This isn’t going to be rocket science. Hit the ball tight down the wall, the harder the better but keep a length. No frills. Don’t lose the match. Don’t give it to him. Make him earn it.”

I wanted to warm the ball up at the start of the game but Ron said, “No, come on, we’ve had the full break.”

So much for my father’s plans. Ron hit three good winners with the cold ball. My father’s mouthed ‘down the wall’ was obvious when I looked up, and in the fourth point I got it going, whack, whack, whack. Ron played a good boast but I scrambled it back and then he hit the tin. Yesss.

The next point was the same, and ended in another Ron error. Jeez this was hard, two rallies and I was out of breath. But so was Ron, I could see. He won the next point and wandered all the way up to the front of the court before returning to the service box.

The next point was a mixture of pain and pleasure, pain because it went on and on, pleasure in that it gave me something I’d never experienced, complete control over another individual. The ball had become bouncy with the hard rallying. It was a question of keeping Ron behind me and enjoying the hunted look that was developing on his face. Finally, with a shout, Ron slipped in a corner and hit the ball down.

“***, we need to wipe the court. Bring your towel.”

“I’m not using my towel. Get yours.”

“For ***s sake. The court’s dangerous”

“I’m not arguing we need to wipe the court. Not with my towel, that’s all.”

The wiping problem was resolved with a wide mop propped outside. Unfortunately the ball had cooled down and Ron won three quick rallies when we restarted, “Come on, Ronny boy, that’s more like it.” My brief confidence turned to fear. I was going to lose. But Ron was taking an age between points and I glanced at my father. He rolled his eyes and mouthed his usual message.

Of course it worked. Soon I’d caught up to six all. Ron slipped again in a comic piece of overacting and we had to repeat the court wiping rigmarole. This time I kept hold of the ball during the interruption and hit some hard shots to myself before we restarted. Ron’s next gambit was lets. He started to ask for what seemed to me to be ridiculous lets. I argued but remembered Siobhan. I was not going to lose my cool. I played a good drop shot with Ron far in the back of the court, backing away in the prescribed arc towards the T. Ron scrambled forwards far too late into my back.

“Stroke to me,” he panted.

“What do mean?” I panted back. “You were nowhere near that.”

We argued for a few moments. Then, in contrast to my experience with Siobhan, the gallery came to my aid. They started to boo.

Ron looked up, arms out in a for-heaven’s-sake-I’m-innocent gesture. “Come on, that was my point.”

Someone said, “You’d never have made that, Ron.”

“Well at least it’s a let.”

In the end we settled for a let and agony, the ball had cooled and I lost the next three rallies. Ten seven, match ball to Ron.

The fear in my belly was horrible. I mustn’t lose now. Ron bounced the ball a dozen times in preparing to serve, stood up straight, took an exaggerated breath and hit a hard one straight at me. I stepped back and only just returned it after a limp bounce off the back wall. A couple of shots from both of us down the wall, there was something very dead about the ball, and Ron hit a drop shot. The thing just didn’t bounce and my desperate lunge wasn’t enough.

A huge roar from the gallery. Ron threw up his arms. I disconsolately picked the ball up. I wanted to shake hands and get out but Ron was milking the moment. I squeezed the ball in frustration.

It was flat. 

“The ball’s burst,” I said, “look. Surely we have to play the point again?”

“What do you mean the ball’s burst?”

“See, here. There’s a crack along the seam.”

“No way, I won that point.”

“Come on, surely you can’t win a point with a burst ball?”

My father’s voice came down from the gallery. “He’s right, Ron. You’ll have to replay the point.”

“Who the *** are you?”

“It doesn’t matter who I am. The rules are clear. You can’t win a point with a burst ball. You’ll have to get a new one and carry on.”

Someone said, “That’s Jolyon’s dad.”

Ron was incredulous. “You mean you’re his dad? You’ve no right to tell us about the rules. I’ve won the match. That’s it.”

He walked towards the door.

“Hold it!” My father’s voice was not loud but I realised in that moment how he’d made it to captain of a nuclear submarine. “You can walk off the court if you like, Ron, but everyone here will know that you didn’t win the match. It’s tough that the ball broke, but that’s the way it is.”

My father’s authority was enough to hold sway over a hundred and fifty strong-minded individuals in a nuclear sub. Quite enough for Ron. He shrugged, “Okay, I’ll get another ball.”

I felt as though I’d escaped a firing squad. The relief was incredible.

However, I was still two games to love and three match balls down. I think Ron realised that he was in a pretty invincible position. My first task was to make sure that the new ball was really hot before we got going again. Ron seemed to understand this and kept on slow balling it back to me. But I hit hard shots back to myself, and there was the added advantage that a new ball always seemed bouncier. 

And so it came to Ron’s serve.

“Right, match ball,” he said.

The gallery was absolutely silent. More ball bouncing, another deep breath, and a high, lobbed serve to my backhand. I was so nervous. Hit it cleanly. Don’t let it drop. Down the wall. Ron shaped to play a forehand and turned it into a perfect little boast at the last moment. I reached it on adrenaline alone. It turned into a mammoth point. Ron kept aiming for the single winner he needed. I ran and scrambled and rallied. And I started to get that feeling again, of controlling an individual. The fact that the individual was Ron ‘Tripper’ Clarke made it all the sweeter. I was not going to lose the rally. I knew it. Then Ron did. In desperation he took one risk too many and hit the tin.

There was huge applause from a now very full gallery.

Ron looked knackered. “Eight ten,” I said and prepared to serve. The pattern was the same, Ron going for winners, me driving the ball to the back. He made another mistake.

“Nine ten.”

Then another mistake. “Ten all.”

A surge of adrenaline. Ron was seriously out of breath. Come on, two points. My serve bounced wide round the back wall, giving Ron several easy options. Maybe I strayed too far across, anticipating a straight return. Whatever it was, I was shocked by an intense pain in my thigh. I’d never felt that before. A hard hit squash ball really hurts. How could he have hit me from there?

“Front wall,” Ron said. “Hand out.” I was told afterwards that the ball was too far across the court to have hit the front wall directly. In other words it should have been a let, not Ron’s point. I started to argue but Ron said, “Definitely front wall,” and went to the service box.

Nooooo!

Eleven ten and I was match point down again. My mouth went dry.

Then I lost it mentally as his serve came over. A crucial point, so you had no option, you knew what to do, no risks: hit the ball safely. But the Devil’s a clever operator and he’s quick to spot a weakness. I’d seen Ron hit enough winning nicks that day. I’d hit them in practice myself. It’s just that the risks outweighed the benefits when you were match ball down.

But Old Nick, true to his wicked name, persuaded me to go for a cross court nick.

Crack, such a good contact, the ball in the middle of my racquet’s sweet spot. And the ball rolled clean, a dead nick winner. Ron hadn’t moved. What an idiot, taking a chance like that. The gallery erupted, eleven all. Ron tried the same thing with my serve and hit the top of the tin. Twelve eleven, sweet.

“Game ball?” I said.

Ron’s nod said yes it was game ball. His body language said no he wasn’t going to win the point. I served high. He went for the nick again and the ball leapt up off the top of the tin.

Yesss! I was still two games to one down but I left the court in elation.

My father appeared for another word. “Well done. But it’s not over. He’ll be rattled, sure. Just give him the same formula. If he’s going to win he’s going to have to rally and rally and rally, no rest, nothing easy, nothing given. Now go and see the ball doesn’t get cold.”

By the time Ron came back onto the court I’d whacked the ball enough for it to be really bouncy.

“One game to two?” He nodded. “Love all.”

I knew the formula. The first point went on for ages, but felt in control. Eventually Ron hit a weak shot into the middle of the court and utterly failed to run for the gentle drop shot that followed. One love.

After that it was no contest. Ron didn’t have the heart to rally and he kept failing with attempted outright winners. Flukes won him a couple of points. The game only lasted five minutes. It was two all.

“Same formula,” my father said, on his haunches in front of me as I sat in a chair outside the court. “Don’t relax. Now, go and make sure the ball doesn’t get cold.”

Ron put up some token resistance at the start of the fifth game, and briefly led two love thanks to a couple of good shots. But the percentages weren’t with those shots. I saw with a sense of triumph how the fight had left him. I’d done that. He was drenched in sweat. I’d broken him. It was as physical a beating as if we’d been in a boxing ring. He’d long since stopped meeting my eye when I prepared to serve. Here I was, a non-descript fifteen year old, in total control of a guy three years older, stronger than me if you measured it in a gym, far more successful than me in the school, and, a big bonus, the *** who had cheated me in a cross country race only a few months before.

The fifth game didn’t last long. Ron looked shattered. At five love, completely out of order as I prepared to serve, I said, “Top of Senior Heartbreak, eh Ron?”

Ooh that was sweet. Right to the end I made him rally. I felt good physically, and was able to scamper for a couple of his desperate attempts at winners. The pleasure at his weak mistake on match ball was more intense than anything I’d ever felt running, light years in front of my best tennis memories.

That was the moment, Ron’s ball hitting the tin for the final time, that totally hooked me on squash.

Chapter Six

Russell Kemball delivered Dave and me to the EIS courts at quarter to nine the Monday morning after our chat with Sailor McCann. In the changing rooms were Sailor and four other guys, getting into their squash kit. Sailor’s accent seemed even more pronounced as he introduced them. Paul White I’d heard of, an English player who’d made a late breakthrough into the world rankings. The others could have been anyone, Ahmed Enan, who was apparently being supported by the Egyptian squash set up, James Lovegrove, a young English guy, and Riley O’Callaghan, who was as distinctly Irish as Sailor was Scottish.

Sailor addressed Dave and me. “Did you both have breakfast?”

We mumbled that we had. It had been an effort getting up and a further effort getting breakfast down. Our usual morning programme started with bacon butties in front of Extreme Sports on cable TV around twelve o’clock. This morning, on Russell’s advice, it had been 7am and wholemeal toast. The Kemballs were a wholemeal family; my tomato ketchup and brown sauce tendencies were frowned upon.

“We’re no’ fannying about,” Sailor went on, “and you need plenty of carbs inside you. We’ll talk more about diet later.

“Now, for the three sessions this week I’m just going to see how ye go. I’ll adapt your programmes individually when I’ve had a look at you.”

We started with a ten minute jog, and I was awestruck to meet Zoë Quantock. Zoë was one of three women Sailor trained for squash. She must have been twenty or twenty one, with short blonde hair and a body that looked too frail, slim hips, boobs that would have been labelled in the supermarket as no more than ‘fun-sized’, and a friendly manner. Brilliant smile too when we were introduced, perfect white teeth. Zoë was one of those people who looked better than the sum of their features. She had a presence, charisma, whatever it was. In a world where each new starlet was labelled, tediously, as stunning, bang, momentary concussion, the effect that Zoë had was more like BANG, permanent brain damage, persistent vegetative state. The other two girls were Louise someone, generic squash slim and tough looking, and an intense black haired girl who spoke her name with exaggerated care, “Carmen Ferrando González.” She even spelled it for me, and after I’d come to grips with the way she pronounced the Spanish ‘z’ I found myself wondering whether a lisp was an advantage in Spain.

After the jog, next on the menu, in one of the courts, was some stretching. Sailor noticed the look that Dave and I exchanged.

“You’re only going to hear this from me once, lads. So listen. And remember. Everyone on this court is here for a purpose. Everything each of us do while we’re here is for a purpose. Everything we do is done as well as we can. We turn up in clean kit. We make sure the grips on our racquets are new. We tie our shoelaces properly. We get to bed at a sensible time.

“And we stretch well. Stretching helps to prevent injury. It’s not part of our match warm up, but we do it in training. Do ye understand?”

We nodded.

“Because if we don’t understand, if I see any attitude, and I mean any, we’re out. Finished. Gone home. Taken up tiddlywinks. Right?”

Sailor’s eyes alone would have been enough to convey the message. After that, Dave and I didn’t even look at each other. I’d never paid as much attention to stretching as I did over the next twenty minutes.

“Now, we’re going to do some court routines. You two,” Sailor addressed Dave and me, “have ye done the drive boast routine?”

The answer for Dave was yes and for me was no.

“Okay, each of you pair off with one o’ the others.”

“Come on,” Zoë said to me. I gulped as we headed off to one of the other courts.

“I’ve never done any court routines. I don’t want to mess up on the first morning.”

“Don’t worry. Sailor does sound a bit fierce. And believe me he is a bit fierce. But as long as you’re trying there’s no better coach in the world.”

I’d never really thought about a woman’s voice before. Singers yes, you liked them or you didn’t like them, but that was more the whole package, the arrangement and the particular song. Zoë had a rather deep voice for a woman. Deep but sometimes it bounced upwards, gentle but tough underneath so you paid attention. She explained the routine we were going to do, one player on the T driving the ball down the wall and one boasting alternately out of each corner. Zoë started with the driving. I couldn’t believe how hard she hit the ball. It was unnatural. After a couple of minutes I was embarrassed. Her shots were so tight I kept on failing to return them, even though I knew where the ball was going.

“Come on, you have a go from the T.”

I didn’t do any better from the T. Zoë’s boasts were either shallow off just the side and front wall, and had me scrambling to drive accurately to the back, or they were more angled and ended up either in or close to the nick. After a couple of minutes of humiliation Zoë stopped.

“This is crap. If this is how you’re going to be you won’t last five minutes with Sailor. What do you think you’re practising, Jolyon?” Normally I’d have been thrilled she’d remembered my name. Now I felt awful. “You’re not practising to play practice shots.” Her voice had an undertone of contempt. “You’re practising to play in a match. This is serious.”

She put her hand on her hip. “Have you ever won a game from match ball down? You must have done.”

Ron Clarke. I nodded.

“Right. Each one of these routines, front or back, you’re match ball down. You’re in a final somewhere, you have to win. Like it was in that game, I’m sure you remember it. You can’t lose the rally. Can’t. That’d be the end of the world. Otherwise this isn’t going to be any use. Not to you, certainly not to me. And I’m not here to waste my time. If you can’t do any better, I’m out of here. I’ll do something by myself.”

“Okay,” I mumbled. “Let’s have another go.”

Oh dear. Only five minutes before I’d been thrilled to be going on court, with Zoë Quantock no less, women’s world champ. Drop dead gorgeous, too. I really wanted to impress. Now what? Zoë’s face was set as hard as Sailor’s, and far from being impressed, she was treating me like a teenage dork. Which is what I was.

“Give me the ball,” I said. “You go to the back.” It would be easier for me to apply pressure from the front, driving the ball deep.

And did I try. I was on to her boasts with everything I had, concentrating as hard as I could, match point down, drilling the ball to a length, get that, now get that, and that. And it worked. In spite of operating only in the front half of the court I was soon quite out of breath. Zoë’s skin became damp with sweat. She started wiping her racquet hand on the wall in between rallies.

“That’s better. Can you feel it now? Now you’re getting some benefit from this. So am I. Five minutes more, I’ll drive, you boast. Mix them up, some straighter, some wider.”

It was more difficult at the back, but more in fear of Zoë’s contempt than anything else I made a huge effort, and was pleased to force an occasional mistake out of her. We duly stopped after five minutes and everyone gathered in the lobby outside the courts. Dave rolled his eyes at me; he’d been paired off with Sailor. He looked hot.

“Right,” Sailor said. “We’ll do ten minutes of stretching and then the gym.”

The first part of the gym programme was basic aerobics on exercise bikes. I could hear my mother going on about her spinning class as Sailor prescribed half an hour of what he said would be light intervals for Dave and myself, “…nothing too strenuous,” in our first week. Within a couple of minutes I was inwardly groaning. If this level was not strenuous, what was strenuous going to be? This would have wiped out my mother’s class. Next came a half hour of exercises on Pilates balls. In response to Dave’s straight-faced enquiry, he was learning fast, Sailor spent a few minutes discussing the importance of core strength.

“Where does Pilates come from?” Dave asked when we were well into the session.

“Don’t you read the Bible?” This was Riley, holding a position that suggested he was trying to impregnate his ball.

“What do you mean, the Bible?”

“Pontius Pilate. He had a bad back. He worked out some exercises for it.”

“For God’s sake, Riley,” Zoë said. “Can’t you do better than that?”

“Just trying to keep our minds off the inflatable dolls.”

“Can it, Riley,” Sailor said. “I’ll have no filth under my watch.”

The physical relationship with the ball was a positive feature of the Pilates. If I’d had any energy to spare, and wasn’t concentrating hard to avoid abuse from Sailor, I’d have been able to appreciate the sight of Louise and Carmen, and particularly Zoë, stretched out on the giant balls. It was serious exercise, though, and as if the Pilates hadn’t been enough of a strain, we then did some specific conditioning for our abs away from the balls.

Finally it was more practice on court. This time Dave and I were paired. Sailor told us to alternate, with one player hitting hard, the other taking the ball early but only allowed to hit gently. Even away from Sailor’s fierce gaze we both took the routine seriously. Looking back later from the end of the summer I can see how pathetic our efforts were then.

Everyone gathered in the lobby at the end. “You two okay?” Sailor asked us.

“Sort of,” I replied. “We’re bloody tired. Or I am, anyway.”

“Me too,” said Dave.

“Ay, ye should be. Recreation this isn’t. Is it, Riley?”

“No, Sailor, Sir. This isn’t recreation.”

“He knows he has to agree with me. Or it’s fifty press ups. Now, is anyone having lunch? I’m going to the canteen after a shower.”

Why not? Dave and I could set our own schedule. We were taking the bus home. Half an hour later we were gathered round two tables in the canteen with Sailor, Zoë, Carmen, Ahmed and Riley. The others had gone.

“How old are you two?” Sailor asked.

“I’m seventeen next month,” Dave said.

“And me in March.”

Sailor looked at me. “So ye’ve a full year more in the under seventeens. And you Davey, ye’ll have to move up with the big boys in the New Year. That’s okay. If you’re interested, I’ll look at programmes for both o’ you.”

“I’d advise against it,” Riley said. “Particularly if you’ve got any hormones. The price of celebrity in the squash world is,” he paused dramatically, “celibacy.”

“Don’t pay any attention to Riley,” Zoë said. “He uses squash to mask his lack of success with women.”

“Huh, they say I look like George Best. Another Belfast boy. And you know how he got on with the fair sex.”

Carmen looked puzzled. “Who is best, Riley?”

“Riley likes to dream,” Zoë said. “George Best was a footballer who died of drink, and too many women.”

“Anyway,” said Riley, “how do you know I’m not gay?”

“Spare us, son, there’s ladies here.”

“I think you have nothing to worry, eh Riley?” From the way she said it Carmen would not be averse to some worry from Riley. And regarding George Best, it was true. Riley did resemble the pictures I’d seen.

“No, Carmen, I don’t worry. And I’m no more gay than the great George.” He pretended to collapse in his seat. “But I’ve no energy, especially after the track session this afternoon.”

Dave was impressed. “You doing some more?”

“Ay, they’ve more to do, seekers of success,” Sailor said. “Eat up, girls and boys. Get some rest. I’ll see you at the track at three thirty.

“And I’ll see you two at nine o’clock sharp on Wednesday, okay?”

That evening Russell asked Dave how we’d got on. “Sailor says he’s being gentle with us this week. Then he’s going to give us individual programmes.”

“How was Sailor’s gentle?”

“Bloody hard,” Dave said. “We did some court routines, after some other stuff. I was with Sailor. Half an hour of that felt like a match.”

I confirmed how serious this was going to be. “Zoë threatened to leave the court if I didn’t get better. Literally. I’m not joking.”

“You were on court with Zoë? What was she like?”

“She hit the ball incredibly hard and incredibly accurately. It was embarrassing at first.”

“So it’s Wednesday morning then? I can give you a lift.”

A little later Dave and I went up to have a mix in his bedroom, but my heart wasn’t in it. I was too tired. We’d already talked about importing our mixes into Dave’s PC, and Dave wanted to get me started.

“I’ll show you how to use the software. PCDJ DEX. It’s really cool, dead easy. You can sample and echo and loop, just like that. It doesn’t allow clipping. You can change speed without changing pitch. I can find any of my MP3s just like that. It’ll do anything you want.”

“Nah, let’s wait till tomorrow,” I said. “Tell you what, though. Can I get onto Facebook on this?” In the quiet of the Kemball’s house, miles even from Manchester, I was suddenly aware how out of touch I was going to be with all my friends. My primitive mobile didn’t do anything as clever as the Internet.

“Sure. Do you want to log on now?”

“Well, just a quick one.”

There wasn’t much on my wall, just some information about a free download and some more comments about my Manchester trip. And as I expected, there was a message from Samantha: ‘Miss you jolls off on sat to jersey with mum and dad and fifi. Wicked party at jim the tigers but not the same wivout a mix and a seeing to from you.’

Lucky the party hadn’t been up here. I’d have been too tired on either count.