He checked the room, a hangover-like blur. He’d taken out his contacts and couldn’t remember where he’d left them. The pain in his shoulder throbbed, what an effort to get up. He opened a drawer in the sideboard and groped for his old Buddy Holly glasses and felt weird wearing them again, like a harness on his face. At least he could see. He walked to the front door in his red and black plaid dressing-gown. A few scraps of mail lay on the floor and as he bent to pick them up his spine creaked like the mast of a sailing-ship. Junk mail. Dross. Nothing from the peripatetic Miriam. A key turned in the lock and Betty McLatchie, looking drained, came into the hallway. ‘Morning Lou, sleepless night?’ ‘Does it show?’ ‘A wee bit. I’ll make coffee. I could use a gallon myself. Like the glasses. Will you sing “Peggy Sue” for me?’ ‘Me? I’ve got a voice that would frighten children.’ He followed her into the kitchen. She set her bag on the table and she shook the kettle to check there was water inside.
