'They'd just come at me, in threes and fours,'
Pete explains to the sympathetic presenter,
leaning forward on the comfy red sofa,
taking a slurp of water. 'Always with some trivial
gripe about the state of the roads,
or the price of bread, or fishing quotas.
And the eggs!' He clutches at the tuft of hair
above his brow. 'Always with the eggs
between their feet, asking me to mind them
while they pop to the disco, asking me
to warm them with a hairdryer,
forever wheedling.' He doubles up,
and begins crying.
The presenter reaches over and smooths his back.
'Come on now, you're okay.' He looks to the audience,
past his autocue.
'I don't think there's anyone here
who doesn't understand your pain.
Thank you so much for sharing that with us.'
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