Imagine the situation when he gets home. His tattered suit sodden from sweat and the rain. He opens the door to his two up, two down in a council estate in Hackney. His skinny children look up, eyes blinking at the light streaming in from the street lamps, a tiny candle flickers in the corner room. His youngest coughs, a weak cough.
"Hello daddy, Timmys finger fell off today and the baliffs are coming around tomorrow to take the candle" she sighs.
"Good news children. I found some sandwiches in the bin at the tube station and I got half a bottle of milk from the fridge at work. Today was Friday and there was only that fat irish bloke working, you know the one I talked about, cake & crisps down his front, he uses his wallet to prop up the four inch gash on the bottom of his desk. Oh he won't mind"
His children cry.
PADDY. YOU B@STARD!!!!!
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