I showed Mr Nice one or two of my rips, and did not bother to dab the odd drop of blood to make them a less unpleasant sight.
He showed me his, under the tattoos.
My Imaginary Friend sat at the table, holding my hand.
'Is he having a job interview then?' I whispered in his ear.
'Yes', he said. 'And you can tick the "ginger hair" box.'
I had never met anybody with tattoos until now.
