The small boy sidles up to me with what can only be described as a shit-eating grin spread across his face. And I should know, for I was – at that time – little more than a small boy myself, and shit-eating grins were my stock-in-trade.
"Ere," he says, shit-eating grin barely flickering, "What's the capital of China?"
I draw breath to give him the answer – for it is Peking – but my reply is not even given the chance to form itself in my mouth as his fist makes violent contact with my nether regions.
"Ha haaaaa!" he screams as he makes a dash for the safety of the school cloakrooms, "It's Bang Cock!"
"No it's not," I wheeze after my retreating foe, "I think you'll find that's in Thailand."
A little bit of sick came up into my mouth. Followed, as it happens, by quite a lot of sick.
And then I was sick inna hedge.
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