a pint of brown and mild
I gripped the stub of pencil dangling by a string. Reading down the Paper, I paused at Emma Griffiths. By all accounts an energetic and effective woman. Having begun with a £500 grant, she had created a business now employing a hundred and twenty local people. She describes herself as a Middle Road Conservative.
As my hand moved, I heard my father’s cough, a legacy from smoking untipped cigarettes. It was followed by the hiss of his spittle on hot coals. Phlegm resulting from fifty one years welding in a century old factory.
I moved to the bottom of the sheet; marked my cross.
The Labour Party.