When I got back into the dining room, my mother was sitting sideways in her chair, one leg crossed over the other whilst she rubbed at the sole of her...foot. I dropped to my knees in front of her, orffering to give her a foot massage. She acquiesced. I'm not a foot man, but a woman's legs always appeal to me. On that day, my mother had worn a pencil skirt with a seam split mid-thigh on one side, enough to allow her freedom of movement but not too risque for a work environment. The way she was. Most women don’t like playing second fiddle to the man in their life’s mother. Luckily I didn’t really see too much of the bugger by then. About a year before, Bernie, after sampling just about every dead-end job within a twenty-mile radius, had taken advantage of the local bus company’s driver training scheme and become a bus driver. Whether he enjoyed the job or not, he was roped into a three-year contract and the buggers could give him any shit awful split-shift they fancied. To be honest I. More

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