It was Mickey’s idea to go on holiday: me, Mickey, Marsha and her mate from police school, Deirdre. Deirdre scared me: she always wore pink dresses and pink bows in her hair like a little doll but beneath those flounces and frills she was pure evil: just Mickey’s type. Deirdre’s folks had a caravan in Wells-next-the-Sea and Deirdre had a key cut without them knowing.
“It’ll be canny,” said Mickey on the Thursday, as we planned the trip in the Favourite. “Norfolk and Broads, eh? Norfolk and Broads!”
He liked playing on words, Mickey: I knew what he meant, but with his accent, it sounded like he was saying “no fucking broads”.