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34
'FATHER THOMAS'

Fat Joe was really fat. I don't know how much he weighed, but it was a lot. He had trouble moving about and had to sort of turn sideways to get in my door. The very first time he came to visit, he broke my chair when he sat down. I'd had it since the very beginning and I was a bit sad to see it go like that.

'I'm so sorry. I'll pay for the damage,' he insisted. 'Or I'll buy you a new one.'

'That's OK. It was already broken,' I lied. It was a perfectly good chair, but I guess it just couldn't take Fat Joe.

'We're off to a bad start, aren't we? It's probably best if I sit here on the bed.' He started manoeuvring sideways but before he could get there, I intercepted him with my reinforced stainless-steel chair.

'No, no, no! Here – this one's stronger.' I liked my bed and didn't want him breaking any of those springs. They're very hard to replace. Besides, I had the mattress just right, with the groove in the centre how I liked it, and I didn't need him ruining it. 'And it's not already broken, like the other one was,' I added, to save his feelings.

Fat Joe's real name was just Joe, but in my mind I always called him Fat Joe. It just seemed to suit him better. Several times I think I almost said it aloud because he always arrived completely unannounced and I was often so stoned that I couldn't distinguish between the voice in my head and my real voice. He probably wouldn't have minded me thinking of him as Fat Joe, though; he had a good sense of humour and made jokes about himself all the time. Deep down, he must have been pretty unhappy about being so big, but he made such an effort to be jolly all the time that I came to admire him.

Fat Joe was American. And while I usually didn't accept Americans