I was always complaining about the weather. I’m not used to Newcastle wind or the icy air. I have always spend my life near the Equator. Now, I am bundled up in layers of clothes in summer.
“My hands are cold,” I told him several times. He did not reply. I touched his arm. His was warm but mine was more convincing as a reptile’s.
“I must be related to dinosaurs,” I said and he smiled in return.
“I got you something,” he said last week.
In his hands he held a pair of black thermal gloves. He’s either fed up with me complaining or he’s just being him, the sweet boy who brings flowers to his Mam.
[bisa] 