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The person I worked most closely alongside was a guy called Simon- at nineteen a couple of years younger than me. Simon seemed not to like Mr. Watson very much. Often moaning about him about various things, and on certain occasions referring to him rather cryptically as "a fucking old queer" or "an old perv", without ever fully explaining why.I did have one theory as to why he called him those things. He insisted on us wearing extremely tight breeches, skin tight in fact, which with the crisp white shirts he also insisted upon gave us a rather, well, "gay" look. At first this had made me rather self conscious- always imagining Mr. Watson was looking at my rear end, but over time this feeling had rather dissipated and I now thought little of it.The day in question was a Saturday in October. Simon and I used to alternate working Saturday mornings and having the afternoon off. This week was my turn to work, Simon who lived on site in a large static caravan had gone out for the day. As I. I had talking about how it wouldn't feel much different when Dory and I were married. We were already living as man and wife."That's true, you are," Paul agreed. "In fact, in the eyes of the law, Dory is your common-law wife. Because you both contribute to the household and both live and eat and share the same bed together, you are considered legally married under Common Law. You probably didn't notice, but when you filled out your tax form, there was an opportunity to have Dory as a legal exemption under that status." I guess I knew that, but never thought about it. Well, I'll still feel better when we are formally married. It will mean a lot to our families and to us." I'm sure it will," Paul agreed.There wasn't going to be a bachelor party, but Paul, my father, Bobby Paulson, Jonathan Moir, and my brother John did take me out for a "last supper" as they called it. Bobby organized a people-van to get us to and from our homes to allow us to celebrate without worrying about driving..
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