He groaned and gently pushed her arm away. She whipped his duvet off and dumped it on the sock-littered carpet, exposing her stripped-to-the-boxers son to the fresh air pouring through the open window. "Joe, it's past one in the afternoon. Get up." "I'm freezing." He turned his back on her and curled into the foetal position. "Would you not take a minute to put on a pair of pyjamas before you go to bed?" "They don't fit." She took in his knobbly spine and how his skin stretched over his shoulder blades. He'd shot up too quickly for his puppy-fat to keep up. She'd have to cook steak for dinner more often. "Come on, you big string of piss. I've got sausages and soda farls downstairs. Hop in the shower and I'll get the frying pan out." Joe unrolled himself and looked at her through one half-open eye. "Sweet. I'll be down in a minute." "Yeah, I thought that'd get you moving." Downstairs, the oil had only started popping in the pan when Joe tramped in wearing his navy bathrobe and dripping water over the linoleum.
