Hard Lines

Carl Thomas and his wife Emma sighed as they dragged their suitcases into the air-conditioned reception of the Spanish hotel. They would be holidaying in the coastal resort of Benalmadena for the next two weeks.

‘I am so ready for this. I can’t wait to chill, relax and unwind.’ Emma said. 

Carl nodded in agreement, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. While Emma was looking forward to the break, he was eager to get stuck in to his story writing. His mind went to the notebook and pens he’d packed. Hopefully he would be returning with note-pads crammed with stories. He hoped that the change of scenery would do him, and his writing, the world of good. In the run-up to the holiday, busy and stressed by work, and life in general, he had been struggling to concentrate on his writing. In the relaxed holiday resort, he would be able to find the head-space and inspiration to write. 

Thirty minutes later, having unpacked and settled in, and changed into t-shirt and shorts, Carl and Emma set about exploring, starting with the hotel grounds. The hotel complex was even more impressive than they’d imagined. When they had booked their trip, they had looked at lots of reviews and comments online. Unlike previous holidays, where the resort and hotel didn’t quite live up to the paradise the brochures offered, this hotel actually surpassed their expectations. Emma enthused about the gym, the indoor pool, and the spa facilities. Carl agreed. The hotel was the kind of place you could go on holiday and never leave the hotel.

That evening as they dined in the Chinese restaurant, over-looking the beach, Emma beamed in delight. She raised her glass of local beer.

‘Happy holidays.’ She said.

Carl repeated the toast and clinked her glass. 

Emma asked if he would mind if she spent the following afternoon in the spa. An afternoon of pampering, massages and saunas, sounded like the perfect way to start her holiday. Carl replied that was absolutely fine. 

‘We could go out for a nice meal in the evening.’ Carl added.

‘What will you do with yourself while I’m being pampered?’ Emma asked.

‘I am going to write.’ He said.

‘Oh yes, you wanted to work on your stories, didn’t you?’

The next afternoon, while Emma excitedly rushed off to her spa session at the hotel, clutching her swimming costume and towel, Carl grabbed his spiral-bound notebook and pen, and deposited himself at a table by the pool. The table was tucked neatly in a shaded corner of the pool area. The other holiday-makers were basking in the sunshine, flaked out on sun loungers. A group of lads in their early twenties were downing pints of lager. Right then, Carl only wanted to get intoxicated on his writing. He recalled a quote by one of his favourite authors. Ray Bradbury had once said that you had to stay drunk on writing, so that reality cannot destroy you.

As they rest of the guests enjoyed the pool and drying off in the sunshine, he worked on his latest short-story in his spot in the shade. He noticed a few people looking his way, clearly wondering what he was doing, writing away. A waiter went by, carrying a tray of drinking. He eyed Carl with suspicion. Carl smiled to himself. They would think he was a hotel inspector, busily critiquing the place for an online review. If they only knew. Far from jotting down a review, he was writing one of his many ‘random stories’. He had been writing stories since he was a kid, it was a childhood hobby that he had never really grew out of. Not that he’d enjoyed any success with his stories, never won any competitions, nor been featured in any anthology.  He posted his stories on a couple of short fiction websites to generally favourable comments. 

At his pool-side table, the words began to flow. His latest story was a tale of time travel. The protagonist went back to 1990’s Manchester to find it wasn’t all raving, music and drugs, as portrayed in the films and documentaries about the period. Carl was chipping away, the story slowly taking shape, when he was disturbed by the noise coming from a platform by the swimming pool. 

A guy with a slick pony-tail and perfect tan was speaking into a microphone. The lettering on his red t-shirt declared he was part of the Entertainment Team. 

‘Right then, guys and gals,’ he boomed over the PA system. ‘your afternoon’s entertainment is about to begin. We have beer-pong, then a quiz and then Karaoke. Who’s ready to have some fun?’ 

Cheers and yells rang around the pool-side in response, as people sat up on their sun-loungers, eager to participate in the forced frivolity. Carl sighed. The other hotel guests were clearly more up for the entertainment than he was. It was as though the volume of his surroundings had suddenly been turned right up. Suddenly the talk, chatter, and laughter was so loud it hurt his ears. A man whose chest was so sun-burnt red it looked painful, tried to get a Mexican Wave going but nobody joined in, much to the amusement of his friends. 

Carl tried to focus on his writing but, with all the racket from the pool, it was just impossible. Finally, he gave up, tutting to himself, as he closed his notebook. He took his notepad and left the hotel, quite unsure of where he was going. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he had to get away from the tacky hotel entertainment. 

Clutching his note-book the way TV evangelists clung to their Bible, Carl wandered the Spanish streets, heading in the direction of the sea-front. He eventually positioned himself on a wooden bench facing the beach. He watched the world go by, holiday makers whizzing by on rented bicycles, others strolled leisurely along the promenade. 

Out on the perfect blue sea, surfers waited on their boards for just the right wave. When the wave hit, they would leap to their feet, and ride the wave. Carl was fascinated by how easy they made the whole thing look. They traversed the wave as though it was nothing more than walking down the street. Carl had no doubt that if he’d have tried the water sport, he would manage nothing more than swallowing mouthfuls of salty sea-water. Children ran along the path, kicking a football, calling out to each other, to pass the ball. 

As he studied the sea-side scene, he tried to relax, to unwind. 

Finally, he got to his feet, and leaving the surfers to their waves, he strolled further along the sea-front path. The baking heat, from the sun in its cloudless sky, was relentless. Soon his t-shirt was soaking with sweat. He needed a drink. He was on his holidays, and it was the afternoon, so a beer somewhere, would be just the ticket. 

Squinting in the glare of the sunshine, he spotted a bar up ahead. Sloppy Joe’s had plastic tables and chairs, with umbrellas providing shade. Carl quickened his pace, eager for shade and a pint. 

He found a free table on the bar terrace, under the shade of an umbrella emblazoned with the logo of a local beer. The bar seemed the ideal place to spend a hot afternoon, sipping a cold beer and get some writing done. 

A waitress came over, smiling, and asked what she could get him.

‘A beer, please.’ Carl said.

‘A large glass?’ 

‘Oh yes, I am on my holidays.’ 

She laughed and went to pour his drink.

He took a sip of the cold lager. In the Spanish sunshine it felt wonderful. He placed the glass down and reached for his note-book. As he chewed on the pen-lid, gathering his thoughts, focusing on his story, his gaze wandered over the beach-side bar. There was a group of lads guzzling pints of lager in quick gulps, there were couples sitting facing the beach, enjoying a cold drink, while taking in the sea view. 

Then Carl saw him. The guy was sitting at a table on the other side of the bar, the table in front of him was littered with scribbled pages of handwritten words, note-books and papers, all weighed down with pebbles and empty beer glasses. He had shoulder length dark hair and a scraggly goatee beard. Scribbling away on the pages, he would refer to the notes in other piles on the table, then return to the blank page in front of him. He could have been a student working on an essay or dissertation. But Carl sensed instinctively that he was no student. The guy, like him, was a writer, a kindred spirit. He was around ten years older than Carl, somewhere in his early forties. 

Carl smiled to himself. Had he stumbled upon the local writers’ hang out? Images of James Joyce and F. Scott Fitzgerald in 1920’s Paris came to his mind. No, he was in no doubt that rather than this being the local hub of aspiring authors, he and his fellow writer were it. 

He took a long swig of beer, and, with a renewed sense of inspiration, now that he wasn’t alone in his creative endeavours, dived deep into the story he was working on. 

A short while later, Carl was disturbed when his empty beer glass was replaced with a fresh pint, placed on the table. Carl looked up, about to explain he hadn’t ordered another drink. The words were struck in his throat when he saw it wasn’t the waitress who had brought the drink, it was the writer. The guy took a sip of his own beer, before speaking. 

‘I thought I’d buy a fellow writer a drink. My name is Miller.’

Carl introduced himself and thanked Miller for the beer.

‘Writing is thirsty work, Carl. We have to stay hydrated.’ Miller said, raising his glass.

Carl motioned for Miller to join him. The older man slid easily into the seat facing him and, pointing to Carl’s notebook, asked what he was currently working on. It was so strange that someone asked about his writing. Nobody was interested in his writing, and he was quite sure that his family and friends thought his hobby was odd. He would try and explain to Emma about the latest story he was working on, or an idea that had come to him, but she would simply respond with a ‘that’s nice, love.’, leaving him in no doubt she didn’t really understand what he was talking about. And yet, this man was a fellow writer, and genuinely interested in what he was writing. 

Carl explained his time-travel story, while Miller nodded enthusiastically. He detailed a similar story he wrote a few years back. Carl asked how long he had been writing.

‘All my life. I am a writer. It’s in my DNA.’ Miller declared. 

There was a pride in the way he spoke about writing. It really took Carl by surprise. Carl had always been shy and awkward about his writing. For him writing was something that he tried to keep to himself, a solitary activity that, whenever he did speak of it, was met with confusion or derision. And yet, this intriguing character was talking loudly, with no sense of shame, about being a writer. 

‘Would you mind if I work with you?’ Miller asked.

‘I’d be honoured.’ Carl said.

Miller grinned and hurried to scoop up the papers and notes from his table, stuffing most of the sheets into a leather satchel. As he was transporting his writings over to join Carl at his table, he called out to the barmaid, in Spanish. No sooner had Miller set himself up, his notebook and papers, when the barmaid returned. Smiling, she carried a tray with a brown liquor bottle and two glasses. 

‘What’s this?’ Carl asked.

‘Ron miel, honey rum. It will have the desired effect but won’t rip your throat out the way whiskey does.’ Miller said. 

‘The effect being?’

‘To quote Oscar Wilde, I find that alcohol, taken in sufficient quantities, may produce all the effects of drunkenness.’ Miller grinned.

Carl nodded politely. He hadn’t expected the afternoon writing to be such a boozy one, but, he decided, it wasn’t every day that you encountered someone as dedicated to their art as you were. 

Miller raised a glass of the golden liquor. 

‘Salud.’ He said.

Just before five o’clock that afternoon, having done as much drinking as writing, Carl let himself into his hotel room. He found Emma reading on the bed, wearing a thick white dressing-gown. He flopped down beside her on the bed, and asked how her pamper day had gone. Emma was about to respond but paused, giving him a puzzled look.

‘Have you been drinking?’ She asked. ‘I thought you were going to work on your stories.’

‘I couldn’t concentrate with all the noise down by the pool.’ He said.

‘So you went to the pub?’ 

‘So,’ he corrected. ‘I went to find somewhere to write. And I found this bar, there was this guy there, he’s a writer. We did some writing and had a few drinks.’

Emma noticed that the excitement in his voice came from the encounter with the writer, as much as the drinking.

‘Honestly, love, I’ve never met anyone like him. The way he talks about writing is just so inspiring.’ Carl said.

The next day, while Emma busied herself with a time-table of massages followed by gym classes, Carl headed to Sloppy Joe’s bar, in the hope of meeting the writer again. He found the writer in the same spot, on the sunny bar terrace. He wore dark glasses and moved gingerly as he flicked through his notes. He was clearly hung-over from the day before and obviously hadn’t stopped drinking after he had parted company with Carl the previous afternoon.

‘Hola, amigo. Can I join you?’ Carl asked.

Miller shushed him before speaking.

‘You can sit there, as long as you lower the volume. I’m feeling a little delicate this morning.’ Miller said quietly. 

‘The morning after the night before, eh?’ Carl said.

‘I think I have a migraine coming on.’ Miller said with a smile. 

Carl laughed. The pain Miller was going through was definitely self-inflicted. Miller called out to the bar staff, who hurried over with a beer for each of them.

‘You’re on the ale again today? I thought you were rough today.’ Carl said.

‘Hair of the dog that bit you, Carl. Hair of the dog.’ Miller said, with a wicked grin.

The afternoon followed a similar vein as the day before. They would discuss literature, poetry, books, and write in their notebooks, and drink pints of beer and occasional shots of Spanish liquor. As he finished one pint, Miller waved for another.

‘Another? Really? I might miss this round.’ Carl said.

‘Nonsense. It is a writer’s duty to live hard, write hard, and write from the heart.’ Miller insisted.

Carl nodded, and accepted another drink. There was something captivating about Miller, Carl found he went along with his suggestions for more drinks and more shots. He had this air of the bohemian, the artist. He was, in many ways, what Carl aspired to be. The passionate, tortured artist. When not talking to him, Miller would converse with the local bar-staff, laughing and joking with them in Spanish. Carl didn’t understand a word of what they were saying. The fact that he spoke the local language gave Miller even more an air of the bohemian. It set him apart from the holiday makers who spoke little or no Spanish, despite holidaying there every year. 

Emma was on the balcony when he got back to the room, working on a word-search puzzle book. When he joined her on the balcony, she tucked the pen into her puzzle book and asked him if he’d had a nice day. Carl explained how he’d met the writer again and had a good afternoon with him.

‘I’m really glad you’ve got this bromance going. A little friend for your holiday.’ She said laughing.

‘Seriously, love, he’s so passionate about the writing.’ Carl said.

‘And the drinking?’ Emma said.

‘We do have a couple of beers while we’re working.’ Carl admitted, trying to keep the slur from his voice. 

He then asked how her day had gone. Emma detailed how she had got chatting to a lovely couple by the pool that afternoon.

‘Louise and Tom, they are from Monton, up the road from us. They seem really nice.’

‘Little friends for your holiday?’ Carl teased.

Emma laughed and playfully slapped him with her puzzle-book.

The next day, while Emma relished the pampering and luxury of the hotel, Carl once again set out in search of the fellow writer. When he reached the bar, he found Miller packing his notes and papers into his leather satchel, and finishing the last of his pint of beer.

‘Ah, you’re here. Come on, we have to go.’ Miller said.

‘Where are we going?’ Carl asked.

‘I want to show you something.’

After a thirty minute trek in-land, away from the sea front, they made it to the old town. Carl’s feet were sore and sweat was running down his back. Surely mid-afternoon wasn’t the best time for a walking tour of the Costa Del Sol. Carl followed as Miller dashed down a narrow back street and turned a sharp corner. 

‘And here we are.’ Miller said.

Carl wasn’t sure quite what he had been expecting, maybe another bar, a restaurant serving local delicacies, perhaps. The ornate red-brick building in front of him was none of those things. Carl stared at the sign and the printed posters around the entrance.

‘A bull-ring? You’ve took me to a bull-ring?’ Carl said.

‘Unfortunately this place closed for bull fighting almost fifteen years ago. It’s now a museum. It’s a shame I can’t take you to a real bull fight. Tragic really.’ Miller said, sadly.

Carl really didn’t share his new friend’s sentiments over what he saw as a barbaric sport, but he said nothing.

As they wandered around the bull ring, Miller savouring the arena, and the memorabilia on display. There were pink-red capes, the matador costumes, and mounted bull’s heads on the walls. Carl shivered. To him the bull’s head was the name of a pub back home, not an actual animal’s head mounted on display. 

‘Isn’t bull-fighting cruel?’ Carl asked as they crossed the sandy centre circle of the bull ring.

‘Bull fighting is art. Besides, life is cruel. The bull fight reflects life.’ Miller replied.

Carl simply shook his head.

‘Time for a drink.’ Miller said, heading for the exit. 

Miller led Carl back towards the sea front, stopping at a bar on a main road away from the beach. The bar was called the Chieftain, and had Irish flags flying out front, from next to the pub sign. As they entered the darkness of the air-conditioned room, Carl looked around. The place was crammed with all kinds of Irish items, from hurling sticks to Guinness posters and Gaelic street signs. The walls were lined with black and white photographs of Irish legends like James Joyce and Oscar Wilde. The ceiling was covered in Irish sports shirts. If you ignored the baking Spanish heat outside, you could almost imagine you were in a pub in Dublin.

Carl was still taking in his surroundings, when Miller headed to the bar, and ordered a round of beers, and two double Irish whiskeys. Miller raised his whiskey glass, Slainte.

‘You speak Irish too?’ Carl asked.

‘My mother is Irish. Born in Dublin, she moved to Manchester when she was a teenager with my grandparents. I have a connection with Ireland and I love it dearly.’

‘And you inherited that from your mother?’ Carl said.

‘Not exactly, she hates the place. She slates Ireland and is more of a proud Manchester lass than anything.’ 

Miller shrugged and took a hit of whiskey. Carl followed suit. As they got stuck into their drinks, Miller spoke on their favourite subject, writing and literature, detailing how a writer, any artist for that matter, had to put their soul into their art, otherwise, why bother? As the whiskey and the beer nicely hit the spot, and in the seductive charm of the Irish bar, Carl had to admit that Miller had a point in his outlook on life. They were artists, it was their lot to live a life and work on their craft. As Miller quoted Oscar Wilde, I put all my genius into my life, I put only my talent into my work. 

When Miller suggested another round of drinks, Carl gave him a thumbs-up.

‘Go on then.’ Carl said. ‘As Oscar Wilde says, I find that alcohol, taken in sufficient quantities, may produce all the effects of drunkenness.’

They laughed at Carl quoting Miller’s words back to him. Still laughing, Miller headed to the bar for more drinks. 

Later that afternoon, as they were staggering out into the sunshine, Miller threw an arm around Carl’s shoulders.

‘You’ll have to let me read some of your work.’ Miller said. 

‘You would do that, read my writing?’

‘I’d be honoured, that’s if you’d let me.’

‘I’d be delighted.’

Back in their hotel room, when Emma asked if he was more drunk than usual, he waved the question away as though it was a mosquito. 

‘Miller has offered to read my work. Can you believe that? I am buzzing.’ Carl said. ‘A writer like that, reading my work.’

‘Looks like you had a drink to celebrate.’ Emma said. 

Carl couldn’t tell if his wife was joking or not. The drunken haze around him didn’t help. 

The next afternoon, Carl met Miller at his usual table in the bar. He placed the folder containing his stories down on the table carefully. 

‘There it is. One of my recent stories. Let me know what you think.’ Carl said. 

Miller nodded, suddenly serious and opened up the folder, and reached for the first page. Carl was shocked that Miller was going to read it right there in front of him. He had expected his new friend to take the writing away and read it in private. What was Carl to do while Miller went through his story? As if he read his mind, Miller looked up from the pages and spoke.

‘You can get the beers in.’ Miller said, before returning his gaze to the writing.

A while later, Miller handed the papers back to him. He nodded.

‘Very impressive, Carl. A really good read.’ Miller said.

‘Really? You like it?’

‘Yes, I mean, the writing was a little clunky in places, but over-all it was a really good story. It had a beginning, middle and end, and a great twist in the tale. You certainly have talent.’ Miller explained.

Carl managed to thank him despite the lump in his throat.  

That evening, as he and Emma dined in a restaurant over-looking the bay, Carl tried to describe how thrilled he was to have somebody like Miller, a writer, review his work. 

‘He actually said I have talent. I couldn’t believe it. I feel like I’m in 1920’s Paris or something, like I’m with James Joyce and Hemingway discussing my work with Gertrude Stein.’

Emma placed her hand on his, across the table, that’s fantastic, love. 

The following evening, having spent another afternoon with Miller, Carl returned back to their hotel room even more drunk than usual. He almost fell through the bedroom door and had to lean on the wall for support. 

‘How much have you had to drink?’ Emma asked.

Carl shrugged, the room spinning around him. 

‘We were going to go for that meal tonight, but you’re in no fit state.’

‘I’ll be fine. I just need a lie down.’ Carl said. 

Emma nodded and helped him onto the bed, and yanked his t-shirt off over his head. Carl shuffled to get comfortable on the bed and closed his eyes.

Carl woke with the daylight hurting his eyes and the room swayed slightly. He checked the time on his mobile phone. It was ten thirty the following morning. He swore. He had clearly been more drunk than he’d thought and had needed more than just a power nap. The fact that he’d slept right through to morning suggested the state he had been in. He was alone in the room. He sat up and peered out through the net curtains. The balcony was empty too. Emma was clearly up and out, leaving him to sleep it off.

Having popped a couple of headache tablets, and thrown on t-shirt and shorts, he headed down to the pool-side. He found Emma in her spot on a sun-lounger by the pool. She sat up on her lounger as he approached.

‘Hello, love. How are we this morning?’ She asked.

‘Aye, not bad.’ Carl nodded. 

He perched on the end of her sun-lounger.

‘Sorry about last night.’ 

‘It’s okay. I ended up going for a drink with that couple I told you about. They’ve gone on a boat trip today.’ 

Carl stretched out on the sun-lounger beside her.

‘Do me a favour today, love. She said. Go easy on the beer, yeah?’ Emma said.

‘Yeah, I’m not sure I fancy a beer today.’

‘Good boy.’ She smiled.

‘Before I forget, Louise and Tom have invited us out for a meal tonight. They know this lovely Chinese restaurant. Fancy it?’

‘Yeah, sounds good.’

That afternoon, while Emma went for a swim, Carl decided he’d have time to meet Miller for a drink. He could stay for a couple of drinks and be back in plenty of time to join Emma and her holiday-friends for the meal. Yes, a drink with Miller couldn’t do any harm. 

He and Miller got carried away with the literature chat and the drink. As he only had time for a couple of drinks, Miller suggested they have a few whiskey chasers and shots with their pints of local lager. Feeling guilty for it only being a flying visit, Carl agreed. 

With the extra drinks accompanying the beer, Carl found he got very drunk, very quickly. He made it back to the hotel room to find Emma almost ready to meet her friends. One look at him, told her he was roaring drunk. Carl tried to explain how he’d only intended to stop for a beer or two, but the words wouldn’t come. His head hurt and he struggled to speak. The hangover was kicking in early. 

‘Go to bed, Carl. Sleep it off, and we’ll talk in the morning.’ Emma said.

The next morning, Carl fought off his hangover and tried to plead his case, while Emma changed into her swimming costume and slapped on sun-cream. 

‘You don’t understand. I’m an artist, I’m a writer. Our brains are wired differently.’ Carl said. 

Emma stopped rubbing sun-cream into her forearm and glared at him.

‘I don’t see a writer or an artist right now, Carl. I see a binge-drinker with a stinking hangover.’ She snapped.

‘How dare you? I am an artist.’ 

‘Really? How much did you write yesterday, Carl? Or the day before? What story are you working on right now?’

‘What?’

‘The only thing you and this feller seem to be working on is drinking as much local beer as you can.’

‘Miller and I are like-minded people. He is a great writer.’ Carl said. 

Emma turned to face him, pointing a finger with the air of a lawyer delivering their final damning argument.

‘You say that, but have you actually read any of his work?’ She asked.

‘No, but he is always writing in his notepad. He says he’s written a dozen novels.’

‘Oh, is that what he says? You haven’t read a sentence he has written and yet you’ve put him on this pedestal.’ 

Carl started to respond at the ridiculousness of her suggestion, but the words got stuck in his throat. He had an awful feeling she was right. She certainly did have a point. He hadn’t actually read any of Miller’s work. Emma put her sunglasses on, grabbed her paperback book and headed for the pool.

Carl found Miller sitting at a table outside the pub. His table was crammed with papers and already two empty beer glasses weighing down his notes. Carl ordered a pint of lager and joined him, Emma’s words still going round his head. 

‘Morning, amigo.’ Miller said. ‘Today is a good writing day, and on a good writing day, nothing else matters.’

Carl nodded, in agreement. He pointed to the stack of papers. 

‘Would you let me read something?’

The warmth and humour faded from his face, like clouds obscuring the summer sun.

‘No, it’s not quite ready for reading yet. When it is, the publishers will be the first one to take a peek.’ Miller said.

‘You could let me read a page, surely that won’t do any harm.’ Carl replied

‘I don’t think so.’ 

Carl gave it one last try.

‘You have read my work. Could you let me cast an eye over a piece of yours?’ Carl said.

‘Sorry, no.’

Carl jumped to his feet, snatching a sheet of paper from the top of the pile. Before Miller could protest, he started reading, stepping away from the table.

While Miller scraped his chair back, rising to challenge him, Carl scanned the page. The scribble was just about legible. The handwriting was shocking, but he could just about make out the words. The writing made no sense. The page was full of random words and sentences, but it was bordering on nonsense, gibberish. This wasn’t a story, it wasn’t anything. Just complete nonsense. 

Miller snatched the page back and set about packing away his papers. 

‘I told you, Carl. It’s not ready to be read yet.’

‘You’re not kidding.’ Carl replied. 

It was as though a spell had been broken. He had seen the older man as an inspirational literary figure, a bohemian creative writer. He now saw him in a different light completely. He saw a lonely man, who drank too much, who told the world he was a writer, a misunderstood genius, an artist, and yet he had amounted to nothing but a string of bar bills and countless pages of indecipherable scribble. Misunderstood, definitely. Genius, Carl didn’t think so. 

‘I thought you were different,’ Miller said. ‘but you are just like all the rest.’

Leaving his beer on the table, Carl turned to leave.

‘Where are you going?’ Miller asked.

‘I’ve got writing to do.’ Carl replied.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom