When Mr. Tilley asked how old I was that time, before I could think of a question to go along with my very short answer, which was just going to be eight, Mum piped up, he’s eight today, aren’t you, Norman? So then I said, yes, and I think it’s probably a helluvan age.

Well, it didn’t matter that I hadn’t thought up a question to make Mr. Tilley talk more because when I said that he laughed so hard the puffs of flour that came out of his ears nearly blew me sideways. But it was a nice laugh. The kind that means I’m laughing with you, not at you because your skin is gross and I’m trying to impress my mates by being mean. I reckon there should be a different word for that kind of nasty laughing. Naughing, maybe.

When he stopped laughing and the air around him cleared Mr. Tilley gave us what he reckoned was his best banana and walnut cake and went, “Eight, eh? Well, good luck to you, son, and I hope you have a helluva year.” Which made him start laughing all over again.

Later on, when Mum was rubbing stinking tar cream on my stinking psoriasis, which by the way had given me a present of getting just a bit worse for my birthday, I asked her why Mr. T had cracked up so much at what I said because I hadn’t actually been trying to be funny. Well, when Mum found out that for all those other birthdays I thought that the Helluvan Age was something like the Ice Age or the Neolithic Age she thought it was so hilarious that she nearly peed. That’s her words, not mine.

She explained that what she’d meant was that every year was a great time in a boy’s life and that sometimes adults used inappropriate words to describe something when they felt quite strongly about it. When I asked her if that was why she sometimes called Dennis her boss at the car yard where she worked a xeno-fucking-phobic I thought she might nearly pee again. Exactly, Norman. Exactly fucking like that, is what she said.

My mum reckons that just because she sets a bad example doesn’t mean I’m going to follow it, because I’m way smarter than her. And by the way, that’s her words again, not mine. Because actually me and Jax reckon that my mum is probably one of the smartest people in the world. She was the first Foreman to go to university and everything, even though she didn’t stay that long because of me coming along. But that wasn’t her fault.

Anyhow, Mum says she knows that even if I hear her use bad language it’s not going to make me do it. And she’s right. I never say the F word, except for repeating if someone else says it, which I don’t think counts. I didn’t even say it when Archie Lowry reefed the collar of my jacket up over my head and pulled so hard the scabs on my underarms bled right through. Not even when I lost a whole pocket full of new jokes when I accidentally went swimming in my school uniform because Jax reckoned surf was up and the last one in was a manky toe. Not even when Mum told me Jax was dead.