The man had bleak recollections of Sunday afternoons; the drone of the football results coupled with the scent of roast beef condensing on the walls. Sometimes he would pretend to be asleep on the sofa to absorb needles or attention with blindness. Later, he would sit motionless and silently in the corner of the room so as not to be taken to bed early. Going to bed would somehow entirely detach the ailing familial reassurance of Sunday in his cold room, as the ground floor filled with red liquid and the music of the 1960s.
He would now spend Sundays outside as much as possible, active and preoccupied; justifiably so, he would fathom. As he packed his car ready for his drive to Trent Valley, he paused at the sight of one of the objects in his boot just as a warming and desolate sound emerged from his neighbour’s house. He placed his hand over his heart as though to feel the ambivalence of the void. You better keep your head, little girl, or I won’t know where I am.