Julian Corkle is a Filthy Liar

I’d never had a grown-up ask my opinion before, especially not the French Way. Adults generally told me off or told me what to do.

‘I’d like something…’ I looked at Mum and then at Des. They were actually waiting to hear what I had to say. ‘…something silky. You know, something that fluffs out in the wind.’ I moved my arms in a billowy way. There, I’d said it.

Des smiled. ‘Wonderful. You’re a gentleman like myself. We have some lovely jersey silks over here.’

He pointed to a shelf with bolts of soft David Bowie leotard material. I’d recently discovered David Bowie and decided he was the most beautiful man in the world. The jersey silk had a silvery gloss on one side. Mum coughed.

‘Julian, let’s not get your father started.’

‘But, Mum, it’s just right. David Bowie’s a big fan of this stuff and he’s famous. He’s got a feature in Celebrity Glitter.’ I knew she was right, of course. My father would have a fit.

Des must’ve seen a bit of this in his fabric department.