The sun beat down on the back of Bernie’s neck warming the very cockles of his heart. It was autumn, he was down the docks, he was alive. What more could he ask?
‘Bad luck about the Bunnies last night, Bern’.
Bernie really liked Norm even though Norm was a good fifteen years younger than him.
‘Bloody ref, oughta go see OPSM. That was so NOT a double-movement.’
Bernie could no longer sort out the truth about footie matches. There was a dictionary of clichés running through his head and that was how he assessed each and every game. It was all in terms of goodies and baddies, your team and my team. He felt something had died in the game but could not put his finger on it. Could smell something dead, but couldn’t find the body. Just the stench.
“What do you call a book of clichés, Norm?’