Withered Apples.

It was chalked on the bog wall and spread quickly round school – a whisper to a chant in the playground.

“Pippin’s mum’s only got one tit!”


We’d played darts at Pippin’s last summer. The house on the corner, halfway up Steep Street. I kept score.

We smoked his mum’s cigarettes, drank his dad’s scrumpy.

“Withered apples,” Pippin explained.


“They drive too fast down Steep Street.”


One day a milk lorry overturned.

Milk pooled in the street. Pippin’s mum was already out there, drenched.

An almost ghost, with bucket. It made no sense.

I pocketed the chalk.

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