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before?’ Brian’s words racing out of his mouth, his grammar clumsy.
    â€˜I don’t think so,’ Greg answered.
    Greg knew it could have been the guy he had seen Brian talking to the last time Greg was in there, but he did not want to cut Brian short.
    â€˜Well, he’s my gaffer. Anyway, he begged me to go over and wake those toss-pots up at the Wandsworth site, so I did! That was about a year ago now. I haven’t looked back. He wants to make me the sales manager over there but he reckons I’m too young, and he says that I need to mature my management skills first. See, I was crap at school and he gave me a job when I left school. I was out the front one Saturday morning, just giving a few of the motors a leathering, cos that’s what I did, I just kept the place clean and smart looking. Anyway, this mug walked up. I could tell he was a mug, just cos I can spot a mug punter a mile away! Anyway, right, I sold this right nail. This motor had come in on a part exchange, right. How the fuck was I supposed to know? My gaffer was gonna scrap it. Honestly Greg, it was a right piece of shit. Anyway, right, this mug walked in and asked me about this motor, I told him it was shit hot, and if he wanted it he’d have to cough up five hundred quid! He looked at it for about three seconds and bought it. Can you believe that?’
    â€˜You sound like you were born to sell motors, Brian!’ Greg knew that this story had bullshit written all over it. That did not matter, he was happy to listen. He just wondered how many times people had sat through this story thinking the same thing.
    â€˜That’s what my gaffer said,’ Brian continued, ‘I had to carry on keeping the place looking smart, but Gaza, that’s my gaffers name, Gaza, anyway, Gaza said that I could do a bit of selling only on Saturdays only cos I wasn’t old enough to sell motors. I was just a kid back then.’ Brian paused to gulp down the rest of his pint in a truly gluttonous fashion. ‘You have to be over eighteen to sell motors you know. See, I was only sixteen so I just helped out in the selling side on Saturdays until I was eighteen. Then Gaza said even though I was shit hot, and born to sell motor’s, I had to go through all the training like the other lads had. I was training the bloke who was supposed to be training me!’ Brian laughed loudly, and then started to cough, ‘fucking fags!’ he cursed.
    â€˜How old are you then?’ Greg thought he would try to move the conversation on.
    â€˜Thirty, why? How old are you?’ Brian replied, sounding a little defensive.
    â€˜I’m twenty-three,’ Greg openly answered. ‘You said your bird was giving you shit.’
    â€˜Yeah, she’s still a fucking kid, only nineteen. You’re not long out of nappies yourself, are you?’ Brian said whilst sniggering to himself. He did not answer the question; it was as if he did not hear it. It was as though he switched off once he heard Greg’s age.
    â€˜Thirty is still youngish though, mate.’ Greg needed to keep the conversation going. He had already pondered the idea of simply walking away but he knew that would have been far too easy as well as a mistake. ‘My turn now, do you want another pint Brian?’
    â€˜Yeah, OK.’ Brian had taken Greg’s comment about his age well, complimentary. ‘Would you get me a cigar whilst you’re up there? I’ll give you the money for it.’
    It was as if Brian was disappointed that Greg was so young. It was not as if Greg looked older than his years. Though, in a way, Greg made Brian feel younger, or maybe it was just the alcohol having its desired effect.
    When Greg returned, Brian was talking to someone on his mobile phone. Greg just sat down, put Brian’s pint of lager in front of him and placed the cigar next to it.
    Greg waited for Brian to finish his conversation and wondered how Brian