Sheila hated my coat. I can’t say I blame her. It hung on a hook on the back of our bedroom door like a Neanderthal artefact from the Natural History Museum, its only credentials for hipness being that the members of bands like Cream and Pink Floyd wore ones like them.
I’m not sure if theirs stunk the way mine did, but when it rained, which was often, it smelt like an uncured yak hide. Afghan coats were in style, as were kaftan jackets, three-button tees, and velvet pants. I’m positive we didn’t succumb to the latter, but as for everything else, my new best friend and I did our very utmost to look the part.
Sheila was Reg’s mother. Brassy, busy, and at that
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