He’s big, He’s old, He’s rather bold, on his arms his muscles have dropped instead of being up on top. His scars are there for all to see, marks of hardship in his history.

His children see dad,  his grandchildren see nothing, a bald headed old man that once was something, he stood on one whilst swinging at another, back to back with his hard arsed brother.

 One day on a dark winter night, a shot in the dark through a gangsters sight. Blood ran fast from his temple down, he fell in the river and almost drowned, surviving a hit, his brother did not, stabbed in the chest from a criminal yob, a big part of him died that day, his brother lost, gone...away. 

Sat in his chair now, quiet, in thoughts, memories of times he could have bought, a flash suit, Italian shoes, a Ford Cortina, he met a beautiful woman, you should have seen her, wife of ten years until she was not, he remembered her mostly until he forgot.

Retirement leaves him quite alone, surrounded by family wishing him gone, forty years a special in the force, the police were his closest family of course, long hours, long years, lots of joy and lots of tears, a Medal for the times he done his best, a fairly good pension for years of fight, it does not help him sleep at night.

The nights are dark and woefully long, so much time left to continue on, grand children look at him and say “old man”, give us thirty quid I’m in a jam, really to buy, a 1/4 of a gram.