“There’s no need for me to try the scarf on too, Mother. I think you’ll find they tend to come in one size fits all.” She responds with the guilt-trip frown yet again – always a guaranteed winner – and with a sigh I pick the stripey scarf up off of the table and wrap it around my neck. With the navy blue suit and tie and the sky blue long-sleeved shirt on; cuff-links, tie pin and Dad’s old Timex adding to my discomfort; I feel like I’m being wrapped for Christmas.

She smiles, heads over from the sofa and pecks me on the cheek. For all my affectations of cool I can’t help blushing slightly from the look of pride in her eyes. “You look wonderful, dear. They’ll be desperate to hire you looking this handsome.” She beams at me, then turns to the brand new boyfriend, the latest in a long list: “And thanks for finding the time to take him shopping, Herm. It means a lot.”

“Oh, it was nothing Barb.” I hate Herman and his stupid name. The only thing more lame is when she calls him “Herm”, or he thinks he can call my mother “Barb”. Anyway, “Herm” got recessioned and is living off redundancy pay. It’s not like he’d had anything better to do than drive me into town.

**

I’d done my best to make his time with me as unpleasant as these squeaky wing tips, and I think I succeeded.

I start by sitting in the back seat in the car, directly behind him. He looks somewhat bemused, but doesn’t say anything; he wants to get all buddy-buddy with me, you see. I kick the back of his seat four or five times before he asks me to please and thank you kindly if it’s not too much trouble put my feet down. I stop, but I scowl at him in the rear-view mirror till I catch his eye, then I look away, stare out of the window.

He tries to engage me in conversation, asks how cool it is to be 18 now. Have I got a girlfriend? I should practice safe sex. Have I started drinking yet? I give him a look of total disbelief, utter disdain. I tell him, “If you must know, I’m too busy for girls right now. I’m working on my fantasy novel and I’ve got to focus on my art. And yes, I’m pretty fond of cider, what’s it to you Herm?”

He says he likes cider too, “Kopparberg on ice is scrumptious.” Scrumptious? I let him know that alco-pop shit is for fags. That shuts him up and he looks like a hurt puppy. He doesn’t try starting a new conversation until we’re in the department store, so I get a few minutes of respite from his brown-nosing. All quiet except for the anaemic hum of his Volvo engine, plus the usual inane yapping on the radio – but at least the volume’s low.

When we get there I slam my door hard enough to piss him off and then go back to texting my friends. There’s the smooth, reassuring sound of well-lubricated sliding doors as we enter, I follow him onto the escalator heading up to Men’s Clothes and see out the corner of my eye that he’s fidgeting the whole time.

A minute later he tries to break the ice for a second time by offering to buy me a football jersey. I tell him he can’t buy my obedience, certainly not that cheap. I also tell him football’s for grunts and queers. I outgrew that shit last summer. We head over to the formalwear in silence. I put my phone away and look around, the place is deserted. To be expected on a Monday morning, when proper grown-ups – not like Herman – are at work.

I go with the blue because it’s my favourite colour. Herman says it’s a good choice, I just shrug. It takes a while to get a suit that properly matches my body shape. I’m still pretty short, waiting on that last growth spurt, and my arms are short and my shoulders are rather narrow, but I’m kind of filling out a bit around the waist and it’s hard to get the right suit. In the end I go for a suit with longer legs and sleeves than I need because I can always ask my mother to shorten it for me.

I think I’m gaining the weight because I’ve been drinking cider a lot. I’ve been reading Hemingway and Bukowski a lot and they drank loads and were really cool writers. I think chicks were really into them too. Plus I know I won’t get fat because I’ve got my growth spurt coming. My face has got a bit chubbier too, but I’m growing a beard to counteract that. I’ll look really rugged. My father had a beard the last time I saw him, before he went off to find himself. He left me his books, though: thousands of them. Some really good ones too, and most are unread so I can sell them on Ebay when I need drinking money.

I get Herman to pay so I can keep the money my mother gave me. He insists on buying me one of the stupid Harry Potter scarves on sale by the counter. I need to buy myself a drink or two before the inevitable living room fashion show she’ll put me through this evening. It’s only a call centre job, but she’s really stoked about this assessment day. I bet everyone else turns up in their skinny jeans and plimsolls. I’ll look so uncool. Still, nearly a year since I quit the daily brainwashing sessions, so I kind of owe it to her to at least try something. If I get the job I’ll stick it out for a few weeks, at least the training period.

Herman drops me off outside The Golden Swan, I tell him to drop the clothes off at the house, wrongly assuming he won’t be there when I get back. I light a cig and take a few deep drags as I look up and down the street: not much to see. I drop it on the ground, crush it underfoot, and make my way into The Swan.