WIX

Lebus said Wix was having a birthday breakfast this morning so I called round just after nine and was the first one there. Wix let me in only when I’d looked through the letterbox to make sure it was the right house, having forgotten the number, before knocking on the pink door.
‘Come in,’ he said. ‘Come in. You want a drink of something?’
‘Tea would be good,’ I said.
We shook hands.
‘Happy birthday,’ I said.
When I moved to Bristol the friend whose floor I slept on lived in the same house as Wix and I’ve known him since then. Lebus also had a room there.
Wix is twelve years older than me, almost, but not quite, exactly. He’s a link to a part of my history that includes people, one man in particular, I no longer know.
Late night drinking sessions at Lebus’s often end up with the three of us talking at the same time, our voices getting louder as we compete to have our opinion heard. Often the music we make descends into tunefulness.
He had a dog called George. The first time I went to Nelson Street to sign on Wix said, ‘George’ll show you the way.’