“It’s all right in here, isn’t it?” said Micky.

Big A’s cousin Micky was staying. Not being from Norfolk, we regarded him as a bit of a yokel and had debated where we should take him in order that he could get a tiny taste of life in the fast lane.

We had settled on the village pub.

“Is it normally this busy?” he asked, in a semi-shout. I looked around the bar. A massive party was in full swing, featuring the cream of Norfolk well-to-do society and a hog roast. I considered this against the usual sparse and scabby collection of foul-smelling regulars with whom (grammar) I normally mingle of an evening.

“Yes,” I lied.

An enormous plate of grilled cheese and roasted vegetables arrived in front of him.

“What’s this?” he asked in surprise.

“You said you were a vegetarian, so I got the guys to knock something up,” explained the Chef.

“For me?”

“Enjoy.”

“Golly.”

Later on I was quite drunk, having enjoyed a long and expansive chat about historical buildings with Len the Fish’s son. But I could still overhear the conversation between Micky and a lady at the bar, who was slurring at him in a posh drawl.

“Yes, because I’m bisexual you see. My thing is that I like taking other girls home with me and being watched. Would you like to come to a party at the weekend?”

“Golly.”

We wandered home together after the second bell, Big A, Micky and I. The sound of car doors slamming, of people kissing goodbye, of the annoying yappy dog in the house opposite. Micky was strangely quiet.

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