Patrick Reinken

Our lives are businesses that are sometimes run by idiots.

My father was a Catholic, a coal miner in the Big Pit. My mother a Jew. A charwoman, when she could find the work. They didn__ fit in Wales. Nor in the U.K., either. They didn__ fit with each other all that well, for that matter. They fought every day for as long as I can remember and loved each other more than anyone I__e ever known. At least they did right up till a night when he looked right and not left at a train crossing in Chepstow and ended up half a mile from where he__ started, dead as the Ghost. Looking for a job, he was. Turned out he didn__ need one.