Jetsam loves to tell that one about when Bassy got The Fear and cried. I wasn’t there. And I also have one about Jetsam getting The Fear, and I’m pretty sure she cried that time.

I have the impression that The Maid spies on me and tells Ma what I’ve been up to. So when I do naughty things I make sure she’s not around.

A good Club sandwich, I’m told, should use three slices of toast, both crispy bacon and cold ham, chicken breast, a boiled egg, iceberg lettuce, tomato and cheese and lashings of mayo to keep it all glued in place.

I’m too busy worrying the threads of mango pulp free from my teeth with my tongue, to first notice that the flies are biting my legs and making them itch and bleed. But once I do notice, that’s suddenly all I can feel. Sharp stinging itchy legs. But I ...

I think this is my story to try to tell. Like all stories, it’s made up of lies and truths, but mostly it’s about all that confusion in between white lies and half-truths.

Bat shit crazy Bat is. That’s why we call him Bat. That’s not his real name of course. No one would ever call their kid Bat.

Crack round here only means one thing.

We are earnestly practising our gin spinning skills. Arms out, turning and turning until we almost puke, then lying on our backs on the comforting loose gravel of the empty car park. The world spinning spinning ...