— HOW’S YOUNG DAMIEN gettin’ on?
— Well –
— Yeah?
— He was a bit low in himself.
— After yis buried the polar bear?
— Maybe a life o’ science isn’t for me, Granda, he says. Broke me fuckin’ heart.
— I can imagine.
— So – yeah. But then. He starts cuttin’ up stuff – bits o’ cloth, like. An’ he asks for the lend of his granny’s sewin’ machine.
— Oh Jesus.
— Yeah –
— You’re worried.
— I was. I’m ashamed to admit it. I think the world of him – he’s a great little lad. But annyway, he’s lookin’ at magazines and chattin’ to the granny an’ tellin’ her all his fashion ideas.
— God—
— Now, I’d never want to interfere with his – like, his natural leanin’s. You with me?
— Yeah.
— But I did.
— How?
— I bought him a tiger. A cub, like.
— To turn him away from the sewin’ machine?
— I hated meself. When I realised what I was up to. But I needn’t’ve worried.
— How come?
— He went to school this mornin’ wearin’ a little tiger-skin waistcoat.
— He made it himself?
— He smelt like the back o’ the chipper after a long weekend. But I’ll tell yeh—
— Naomi Campbell will be wearin’ his stuff.
— She’ll be fuckin’ lucky.