Nathan came in at nine o'clock with his laptop open, resting it on his forearm like a waiter carrying a tray of expensive drinks.
"Right. Do you want it or not?"
"Go on."
He put it on the table between the cereal bowls and cranked the volume. It was a radio phone-in from the Monday morning commute, a man called Gary from Sale, and he came on the line already shouting.
"...grew up round the corner, his dad was a season ticket holder for God's sake, this club wrote to him, and he gets on a coach to London and stands in our ground like he owns it! And his player puts four fingers up at the Stretford End! Four fingers, and I am telling you..."
"This is the good bit," Nathan said, pointing at the speaker.
