"nah" says Jones "fuck that. Thats what commuinity support are for."

he knows this is lax policing, he knows. What he doesn't know, yet, is the regret.

"Lets go and get some lunch first at least" he says.

Holder doesn't say anything. She looks at him again, and, risking it, looks at him.

The cigarette or the smoke, or the way his face looks in the watery, stella coloured sunshine are making her shake. She sits in the driver seat and squirms.

"Lets go to the Metropolitan, its only round the corner, lets grab a sandwich" suggests Jones. He hopes that his guess that he has more than thirty quid left of his overdraft is correct. They drive down Burton Road. They pass the shitty swimming pool, the dilapilated council houses, the offys and then the increasingly posh takeaways as Burton Road goes upmarket as it hits West Didsbury. They manage to park in the last remaining space in the car park. Although it is barely lunch time, the car park is full of expensive cars. Jones is jealous, but then thinks "fuck them"

Inside, he nods at the goregous head waitress, blushes a bit and heads to the bar. The bar is lined with posh bottles, rare vodkas and beers of the world. Jones is more jealous. He could stay in here for days and drink the fucking place dry

"What's your poison" he asks Holder