5’11 and 11/12ths, so close to Jesus you could spit. Angry, sort of evil. The kind of monkey you wouldn’t leave your children with.
As the bastard son of Joan Collins, I heard the word “BITCH” a lot growing up at Misty Mountain. I had some good times, I had some bad times. Joan used to send me to the local hop (the ‘s’ had fallen off) to buy something called boogie with stew. It didn’t taste very nice, I preferred custard pie and hot dogs, and sometimes Joan would let me go down to the candy store to get some rock.
“Bring it on home there Darlene,” she would say to me knowing full well my name was Stretch. Usually in the evening, she would be dazed and confused, probably the salty air. We did live down by the seaside I suppose. She was sick again on celebration day. The locals knew she was slightly nuts and I suppose she would ramble on about the small animals she liked to eat. She once ate a whole otter ubh (Irish for egg).
“Look at that fool in the rain!” she regularly screamed at me about our pedigree black dog Bonzo who was claustrophobic. Due to Joan’s ill health, Suzi Quattro, a loving live-in maid began work for us. She arrived in the middle of a battle between me Ma and me and she promised to stay evermore.
“Hey Hey what can I do for you guys?” she said and then broke up her enormous bass guitar into four sticks, set a roaring fire and knitted me a kashmir jumper. Joan flipped out and took flight in the night to see friends who were having a book group or something. I think they were reading “Moby Dick” by that guy who wrote “Black Beauty.” I cried.
Suzy said “It’s nobody’s fault but mine.”
I said, “No,no, realistically she needed a night out on the tiles.”
“Poor Tom” Suzi said.
“Who? I screamed.
“That’s the way to get a smack boyo.”
TO BE CONTINUED