I’m sitting at lights when the poppa-poppa of a Harley behind me makes me look round. Sitting astride is Squaddie, grinning at me.
“I heard you were out and about. Nice legs…”
The lights change and he rumbles off into the distance, I catch him at the next junction.
“I thought the bike was meant to be fast?”
“Not on the open road, mate!”
“You working Monday day shift?”
“I’m on the motorbike response unit. Bet you a fiver I beat you to the jobs.”
We shake on it, his leather gloves in my fingerless mitts.
He takes off in a roar of exhaust fumes.