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of them round here shove their bairns straight out on the street, or take them out of school, or get them a job in the same factory as their dad. And thatā€™s if theyā€™re lucky, if they have a dad. Thatā€™s no life.

Anyway, yeah, that Roseanne. Sheā€™s had a hard time of it by all accounts. And you can tell. Although she makes you laugh and stuffā€”eeh, I nearly pissed meself one week, there was summat on, I canā€™t remember, but it was bloody funnyā€”you can see in her eyes that sheā€™s had a bad time really. Itā€™s always in the eyes. Thereā€™s a sincerity in eyes.

You can never see it in your own eyes. Only other people can see it for you. Only, they arenā€™t always up to the job of seeing the hurt in other peopleā€™s eyes. Yet you have to rely on them. Mind, you donā€™t want just anyone seeing into you. Thatā€™s like broadcasting all your business.

Itā€™s funny, mind, how when you look in a mirror you can never see your own hurt. You might feelā€”I donā€™t knowā€”wounded or whatever, shat upon, but when you look in a mirror your eyes are suddenly bright and glassy and smiling just as mine were when I was being glamorous and young for me years at Grab a Granny night.

Thatā€™s daft, though. As if anyoneā€”especially a womanā€”can hide stuff from herself.

On the cover of this stack of TV Times Roseanneā€™s smiling and advertising her new series. They reckon sheā€™s lost weight and she looks pleased with herself. Sheā€™s got a new hairdo but I can see whatā€™s in them eyes and sheā€™s had it up to here, poor cow.

Sincerity.

Iā€™m putting on me anorak round the back at the end of my shift. The staff room is tiny and itā€™s full of all the breakages ready to go back. I tell you Ericā€™s greedyā€”he wants his money back off everything dropped on his lino. Thereā€™s smashed jars of pickles in the staff room and it reeks of vinegar.

So Iā€™m zipping up me coat and crunching a pickle when Eric comes in with a full carrier bag. He gives us a smile like he knows summat I donā€™t. Since heā€™s the boss thatā€™s usually true, like, and I worry that some day heā€™s gonna just give us me cards and thatā€™ll be the frigginā€™ surprise. But the night he just gives us this filled carrier.

ā€˜You might as well have these, Judith,ā€™ he says. ā€˜Youā€™ve most probā€™ly read them all already, but theyā€™re left over and I canā€™t do nowt with them.ā€™

I look in the bag and thereā€™s all this weekā€™s unsold magazines in there. Whatā€™s on TV, Top Santy, Just Seventeen, the bloody lot. Well, Iā€™m not too sure whether heā€™s taking the piss or what, so I just shove it under me arm, collect me things, say good night and then I go. I know for a fact he can usually get a few pence for leftover magazines, so I decide he must be trying to be nice to me. He gives us a silly little wave from the back door.

I reckon it must be like that male menopause heā€™s getting. I read about it and heā€™s the proper age.

The proper age! Itā€™s not right that he shouldnā€™t still be twelve. The age he was at first when I knew him.

Heā€™s looking tireder just lately. But heā€™s all right ā€™cause him and his younger wife are off on a holiday next week anyway. Second honeymoon. They get about. Florida, he reckons. Theyā€™ll visit the place with the killer whales and Disneyland. Not that theyā€™ve any bairns to take. His son Alex is looking after the shop next week, thatā€™s why he was telling me all about it. Besides showing off, like. I had to nod and say how lovely it sounded and how I hoped it kept nice for them and all the while I was thinking Iā€™ll have to put up with that kid again. In his little suit.

It makes no difference, really, though, whoā€™s in charge when Iā€™m behind the till. Alex wonā€™t usually order me around unless his tarty little girlfriend is down to visit. They drive around in this big car of his. The roof comes off like they think theyā€™re in America. Sometimes all I can wonder is whether heā€™s got owt in his trousers like Eric had back then, and I bet he has. Heā€™s the same sort of good-looking short-arse like his dad.

But I shouldnā€™t even be thinking about the bossā€™s sonā€™s trousers. The ladā€™s over four years younger than our Andrew. Doing well for hiselā€™, mind, whatever you say about him. My Andrew doesnā€™t drive. Heā€™s had no one to teach him, no one around to do that, no dad. I donā€™t drive. I think heā€™d beā€¦ not timid, but too careful behind the wheel of a car.

Thereā€™s so many things to watch for. With your gear sticks changing and mirrors and looking at the road ahead and stuff. Heā€™d be letting every other bugger get past first. You have to dig your heels in, push your nose in, get in there. Iā€™ve told him. His mam knows that much. Our Andrewā€™s not one to push hiselā€™.

When I get in the house Andrewā€™s already there. He knows that when I finish work I need to sit down a while and relax. Itā€™s a full day on your feet and it takes it out of you. Iā€™ve started getting palpitations in the night in me heart. When you push your thumbnail through the skin of an orange to start peeling itā€”thatā€™s what it feels like sometimes.

Andrew jumps up straight away when he hears the garden gate rattle and heā€™s opening the kitchen door, ushering me in like an old woman, and whipping the kettle on, gabbling on.

Heā€™s a good lad and I can tell by the way he goes on when I come in that heā€™s pleased to see me. Heā€™s had no

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