at ten o'clock on a Sunday morning.
GoodNews has picked it all up already, of course. We sit down to a hastily assembled ploughman's lunch, and without invitation he wades into the stagnant, foul-smelling pond that is Mark's life.
'I'm sorry if you think I'm being a bit
pink nike heels, you know,' he begins. 'But when we shook hands??? Man, you nearly took my arm off.'
'I'm sorry
air jordan store,' says Mark, apologetic but understandably surprised: I saw the whole incident
sale christan loubitons, and it seemed like a pretty straightforward handshake to me; at no stage did it look as though anyone would end up with a permanent disability. 'Did I hurt you?'
'In here you hurt me.' GoodNews taps his heart. 'Because it hurts when I know fellow human beings are in trouble. And if ever a hand was shouting for help it was yours.'
Mark cannot help it: he has a quick look, back and front, to see if there is any evidence of this manual distress.
'Nah, you won't see anything there. It's not a, like a visible thing. I mean, I feel it physically. Ow. You know?' And he winces and massages his hand, to demonstrate the pain that Mark so recently caused him. 'But sadness is a right sod for keeping itself hidden away. A right sod. Gotta come out sometime, though, and it's pouring out of you.'
'Oh
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