In his hand was a book of poetry by Philip Larkin. He remembered Will at fourteen reading the poems to his mother. His mum never liked them because of...the bad language. Will kept telling her, it wasn’t the words that were important but the way the poet used them. He kept on reading until Tom, seeing his wife’s discomfort, snatched the book and threw it in the bin. ‘There.’ He’d said. ‘That’s where your bloody poetry belongs. Why can’t you leave all this arty farty stuff be? Can’t you see you’re. Doctor Horn professionally got down to the business at hand as he stood in front of Annette."Got to check your breasts for lumps, Annette. Wouldn't want you to come down with breast cancer now, would we?"Annette shook her head as the doctor began to fondle her ripe tits. He felt over and around them with his gentle hands, lightly pinching as he did so. He tweaked her nipples, then rubbed over them with his palms. He ran his fingers around the sides of her tits, then underneath. He cupped them. More

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