Truth Or Date

4 Finch Avenue, that’s the street Millsy and I grew up on. In cute red-brick detached houses, down a quiet little cul-de-sac in Outwood, a town near Wakefield that no one has heard of.

Millsy didn’t just grow up on the same street as me, he lived in the house next door. Our mothers have been best friends since before we were born and, as a side effect, our dads are best friends too. Except, now that I think about it, I don’t think our dads have ever liked each other all that much. One thing I remember about growing up here was how they were always competing with one another. It was all about who had the neatest lawn or the most impressive tool – I know, that sounds like an extension of something, but in the suburbs having a large strimmer is exactly that. I guess our dads are quite different people, too – opposites, in fact. Millsy’s dad is a big, tall, broad, bald-headed rugby-loving dude whereas my short, skinny, curly-haired dad would much rather watch the football – or “girl’s rugby” as Daddy Mills would put it.

Our mums are both your typical suburban housewives who quit their jobs the second they fell pregnant. They both moved on to the street at the same time, both had two kids – and they even managed to give birth in the same years. Our mothers were already pregnant with their first two kids when they met, but whenever it is mentioned that Millsy and I were conceived around the same time, Millsy’s dad assures us that it wasn’t a keys-in-a-bowl-on-the-table kind of thing – something that had never crossed my mind until he brought it up.

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