Us

by David Nicholls

was aware of this going on around me. I knew about the nightclubs and the gallery openings, the gigs and the demonstrations; I noted the hangovers, the same clothes worn to work on consecutive days, the kisses on the tube and the tears in the canteen, but I observed it all as if through reinforced glass.

But the unrequited love of one’s only living offspring has its own particular slow acid burn.