Sunday came, and the traditional barbecue, spitting hot fat at anyone stupid enough to come close. Mother bigger was about halfway down a bottle of very expensive gin when she stood up and threw her arms wide.
“This is the life. Fresh air. A barbecue under the stars.”
“It’s four o’clock in the afternoon, Mum.”
She withered younger son with a glance.
Big Bigger grinned.
“Why don’t we try camping?”
“Camping?”
“Camping is so not cool.”
“No? Cornwall. Sand and surf.”
The teenagers perked up and Mother beamed.
“See to it,” she said grandly before falling into an intoxicated slumber.
An everyday story of concrete folk: Four
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