He’d had a good summer, hot and steamy, the high temperatures keeping him busy selling a record number of air conditioners and sending his commission to an all time high. Feeling particularly buoyant he was considering widening his boundaries to the undiscovered territory of Melton Mowbray perhaps. There was talk in the office that he should spread his wings towards Rotherham, but the idea held no appeal. He liked places with something going for them: Nottingham had lace and Robin Hood. Melton Mowbray had pies. He was at a loss to find something fascinating about Rotherham.
He had been brought up in the suburbs of Sheffield when it was still black, his family moving away when some bright spark had the idea of sand blasting the place. From the back seat of a Ford Anglia tailgating a removal van, the sudden appearance of creamy coloured stone reflecting sunlight light like freshly laundered linen on a sun kissed summer morning, was something of a revelation to the very young Roger. And along with the scar from falling head first from the garage roof in a moment of immature bravado, it was something that had remained with him. But his mother had disapproved.