Bad boy Jamie comes in with a crowd, and he plays up to them. His boyfriend comes over and tells me that Jamie is a cunt because he is sleeping with somebody else. I hate to tell him that it is me. But the boyfriend is right. Jamie is a cunt.

Jamie looks over and pretends that I don’t exist. But that boyish charm and those tattoos still make me weak. And then, bad boy Jamie and his boyfriend start arguing about a lad called Jordan who Jamie has been sleeping with. I am hurt and jealous. They start fighting and I’m glad that I can sit in a corner and look at their life unravelling in front of me.

Bad boy Jamie, I do so think you are exciting.

I love the fact that you fight and carry a knife in your sock. A flash of blade means a flash of leg and that tattoo on your ankle that says ‘Jamie’.

And you come to realise that appearances can be deceptive. The clean handsome boy turns out to be an alcoholic; the athlete is hooked on drugs; the sweet angel is a megalomaniac; the mean looking boy, with hoodie and sweatpants, turns out to be polite and eloquent; the bad boy with tattoos reads classic literature.

A little rent boy who is quite cute with peach fuzz on his lip comes in. He talks to the ugliest meanest fuck who is stood next to me. He never even gives me a glance. Eventually, he turns his attention to me, and asks me to buy him a drink. I tell him to fuck off. But he doesn’t because he’s obsessed with the ugly fuck stood next to me. He introduces himself as Regan, I shake his hand. And then ugly fuck says that rent boy has bad breath and I act as if I’m bothered. Truth be known, I am a bit bothered because I quite like the little fucker:

I am in a barber’s shop. I tap on my phone. A few minutes to write something. Anything.

The door opens and mother and son walk in. She is miserable. Poker face. He is cheerful. About fourteen or fifteen.

I am more interested in writing a paragraph. The words are good, and I step into my creation.

When I look up, the boy is watching me, grinning. Poker face glares at nothing. I go back to my phone and write some more.

Five minutes pass. I look up and he is still looking at me. And I think, I am watching you, watching me.

I chat shit with the guy who cuts my hair. When he is finished, I make to leave.

The boy smiles and scrutinises me, but Poker Face scowls.

And just as I am about to walk out the door, cheeky grin crosses his legs, and now I am certain.

I want to say to his hideous mother that her son is gay. But if I do, she will probably cry.