You don’t get the angel you order — you get the angel you need. Funny trick, that.
With black-streaked blond hair, leather cuffs, and a lavender god is dead t-shirt, there he sits at the kitchen table, drinking my tea and eating Jaffa cakes like he’d been born to it.
What the hell have I done to deserve this? All I did was get the washing in from the garden.
Soon, he takes my car, cigarettes, and all sense of reason, but plays a fierce Händel with my toddler on his knee, awakening our old piano from slumber.