Some of my mates come by the house from time to time, they say they do it just to annoy me, but actually they’re shit scared that I’m losing it. They come right out and say it too, but when they see how I react, they start joking around, grabbing each other by the sleeve, by the neck, by the dick, calling each other wacko. The crazier you are, the more you laugh, they say, laughing like lunatics. You can’t choose your friends. I play along just to get it over with. After they’ve trashed the place, we collapse on the sofa and talk. We talk for hours. It’s always the same conversation. It starts with me. Why don’t I go out any more? Why am I always going round with a face like an undertaker? Why am I always reading? And what the fuck am I writing in this notebook? Then they start with their stupid questions: Am I eating properly? Who washes my clothes? Who does the cleaning? Who takes out the rubbish? Who’s paying the electric? I don’t try and explain, they’ve all got mothers and sisters who do everything for them. I can’t imagine Bidochon – who’s done, like, three days’ work in his whole life – or Momo, who lives off the halal meat from his father’s butcher’s shop, know what a direct debit is, or how to wash a pair of boxers, make an omelette, cut a slice of bread, clean up after themselves, flush the toilet. All they’ve ever done is sit back and wait for everything to be done for them. The only one who can actually think is Idir-Quoi, but he can’t tell you what he thinks because the minute he opens his mouth he starts stammering. There’s no point even talking about Togo-au-Lait, he’s black as the ace of spades, he’s got his hair in cornrows like some gangsta and he thinks he’s clever as a monkey. When you see the way he rolls his eyes as soon as he sees a question mark, you realise he doesn’t know much about monkeys – a lot of them are incredibly stupid. Raymond’s got two brains that don’t connect, a brain full of working-class common sense he inherited from his dad, and his own brain, which chews up common sense and spits it out. How much sense you get out of Raymond depends on whether you’re talking to the father or the son. Or the Holy Ghost. At the end of the day, Cinq-Pouces is the only one of the lot of them with a clue, his nickname means he’s all thumbs, but he’s a hard worker. He’s the only one of them who’s ever held down a job. He used to work with his father and he can turn his hand to pretty much anything. The things at the end of his arms aren’t hands, they’re Swiss army knives. Like I said, you can’t choose your friends. But I love them the way they are, crazy, dumb, ungrateful, awkward, useless, infuriating, and all out of benefits, even the benefit of the doubt. They’re prisoners. Yeah, I love them.