“Christ,” I say to Mum. “You have a hot priest”

IT’S MORNING and I’m in the front gardens of a pretty Georgian terrace.

The stone bench on which I sit overlooks a Cornish harbour where yachts bob about, their masts clinking in the breeze.

Mum’s house. I’ve come alone. I breathe in the sea air, rolling a cigarette; a holiday treat I intend to smoke out here with my coffee.