I lift a tarpaulin in the garage.
'Here he is.'
Ian squats on a small tea chest,
yellow wheelclamp biting into his ankle
like a huge plate fungus.
He wears the truculent expression
I have grown used to,
grown to love, I realise,
as Michael steps forward,
brushes a woodlouse out of Ian's hair.
'To be honest I haven't had much time
to use him,' I admit sheepishly.
'Jane keeps nagging me to sell him.
She wants to convert this into a nursery,
but, you know - boys will be boys!'
I throw my hands up and grin
in a gesture that I hope says
tut, boys eh!
leavened with ironic camaraderie.
Michael turns to me,
his palm still resting on Ian's head.
'Shall we take him out for a spin?'
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