Jonah’s red and rusting transit van was a treasury of sweet wrappers, empty crisp packets and assorted fluff and sticky stuff. I was surprised. His flat was an oasis of order and cleanliness. I shot him a questioning glance as we drove into town.
‘Not me,’ he said.
‘The text writing bitch?’
He chuckled and shook his head, and pulled into the kerb outside Popper Originals. The shop window contained a display of vaguely phallic sculptures, a couple of Northumbrian landscape paintings, and the knotted face of Rebecca Popper – my mother…