A Night In Daddy's Bed
His mind seemed cluttered with half-formed ideas, odd fragments of knowledge, and bits of conversations that never quite found their ending.
Years earlier, a café called Oddballs had opened in Soho. The idea had been to attract the eccentrics of the West End—wild-haired artists, drag queens, punks, hippies, gonzo journalists, dandies. It never worked. Instead, the place filled up with ordinary office workers who had come in droves hoping to see the oddballs. In the end, they just sat there staring at one another.
Bobby reminded me of that sometimes, someone who belonged among the unusual, yet somehow existed in the middle of the ordinary.