a large mug of tea with three sugars.
When the letter arrived instructing him to carry out his national Service, Jack Burton was pleased. It enabled him to distance himself from his father. William Burton, an Undertaker, with neither a sense of humour nor the ability to leave a bottle of Johnnie Walker in a cupboard, was a bully. He was always easily recognised at the crematorium; his clothes smelled of moth balls and his breath of peppermints.
It was during the second week of his basic training that the sergeant stood behind Jack and screamed into his right ear. ‘Am I urtin you lad?’
‘Well I ought to be, I’m standin on your air. Get it cut!’
As the non-com moved away, he left behind a whiff of peppermint which left Jack shivering.
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