Adrian the butcher always picks the best cuts for me.
He is a big man, ruddy of complexion. His eyes are a disarmingly pale blue, and his hair is white beneath his white cap, although we are probably the same age. (Is there an almost-albino gene?) His apron is stained pink with the blood of a thousand slaughtered cows.
He chooses the most-perfectly-marbled of striploins, the meatiest racks of lamb, the savouriest of sausages, and the plumpest of pork chops, weighs them, wraps them in brown paper. We talk about music and the concerts that are coming up, and once he showed me cell phone pictures of him with KISS backstage at a show and I was suitably impressed.
