I remember the days of taking the bus to this particular hairdresser in Lewsey Farm with my nan. Must’ve been about five or six. She would get a perm and stuff like that, and as she would sit there in one of those fancy chairs with a strange contraption on her head, the woman that owned the place would hand me a broom and allow me to sweep up all the hair lopped off the other clients. She didn’t ask, I did it because such a thing appealed to my strange ways. The building still exists, but its glory days have long since faded, and now all it’s good for is being the site of some run-down pawnbroker store. Poor people go there and sell their shit, and then they go to the nearby hospital to die. It’s the same hospital Sarah and I visited when we were expecting Bethany, and the same place my dad went for his cancer treatment. It’s also the place where on two separate occasions I’ve had my balls lubed up and fondled by another man. Not my finest memories by a long shot, but at least it wasn’t an enema. Sometimes when I’m walking through the streets at night, I close my eyes and picture the kebab van I walked past on my way back home during my university days. The guy who owned it, he would always nod at me as I stood there smoking my cigarette pondering whether or not to get some cheesy chips. As it turns out, he was closed down a few years later and imprisoned after traces of human flesh were found in his meat. I never ate his meat, only his chips, but not a day goes by when I don’t look off into the distance forgetting what I’m supposed to be doing just like I did back then.