As a child, I always knew when my dad was coming over. Mum rushed around making sure the flat was tidy, the sink was clear of its usual clutter and there was a delicious smell of toad-in-the-hole with creamy mash wafting from the kitchen. Dad was married to another woman on our sprawling council estate and had a son with her. But he'd had an affair with my mother, and she was 21 when I was born. Mum got so little from my father, yet she still adored him and seemed to live for his occasional visits. He was the love of her life, and a few hours with him here and there was better than no time at all.
Even the frightening occasions when he came round drunk and violent, or the time he was arrested at our front door, couldn't dent her feelings for him. As far as I could gather, he was the perfect father to his son Graham* - taking him to football matches and organising days out - but I barely saw Dad except for those brief visits. Even then, he simply ignored me. We scarcely exchanged a word from the time I was eight.
Our estate was a tough place to grow up and the majority of tenants lived hand to mouth. As a result, many people, including my dad, were involved in crime - everything from handling stolen goods to drugs or counterfeiting. Children went to school just enough to keep the authorities at bay. Yet there was a strong sense of community as long as you were part of the inner circle' and stayed loyal.
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