It was cold and The Dog already peed on every bush and brick on circa two hundred acres/circa eighty hectares and it was time to go, and I wanted to go because, although I am a natural-born snoop, it gets a bit boring after a while unless people do things. A murder would be nice. But something made me stay a bit longer and sure enough something interesting happened. The door opened. The housekeeper came in. She was a lot taller than the English guy, taller than me too, maybe six feet. She had big bones and big hands and a flat ass. She wore skinny jeans, a skin-tight silky T-shirt and high boots and I just knew she was a man. Even though she could wear those high boots like a model, even though she moved like a model, even though she did not do a single thing that was like gay or something, I knew she was a man. She had that perfect English complexion. In that instant I fell in love with her skin. I wanted it. I would wear it like a suit of designer clothes. In the lamplight I could see that it was flawless.

She went and sat on another chair. They spoke to each other for a second, then turned their eyes on the telly. There was nothing to say they were in love but I knew they were. They sat there like an old couple watching the six o’clock news.

I did not tell Holly.

It’s not that I don’t tell Holly everything, it’s just I don’t think she’s ready for things sometimes.

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