My name is Beloved of God, Protector of Men, Son of Smith. I am named after a Jewish king , a Macedonian homosexual warmonger and genius and I make swords for the MacDonalds of The Isles. I am permitted to wear their tartan and the primitive tartan of The Gows. The Gow crest depicts a fierce Scottish Wildcat and is accompanied by the motto: 'Touch not the cat but a glove'. Say no more.

Mum wouldn't go to the nearest bus stop even though it was already a long walk.

"It's cheaper from the next one", she would always say.

"Boing, boing, boing, I'm a bouncing cheque", the boy was singing as he held Mum's hand.

'He better have paid the money in this week". It was a funny voice, like the bad soldiers on the telly.

It was a big new-smell building and the uniform behind the sliding window looked down at the boy, who in turn looked down at his little boy sandals.

"Doesn't he look like his Mummy?" It was not a question.

The boy's face burned cherry red. He didn't want to look like a lady.

"Yes you do. Oh yes you do."

The light came in from the kitchen window and lit up the radio. It sung "Don't Walk Away Reneé" and the boy danced around awkwardly at the top of the stairs. The doorbell went. It played a tune so nice that Mum had to open the front door. As the door opened a red bus drowned out all other sounds for a few seconds. The boy stood behind her and slightly to the side, peeking out. Standing on the doorstep under a side parting was a moustache. It smiled at the boy. "Hello son."