1. I was given a child.
  2. A three(ish) year old boy. Curly blonde hair, middlingly pretty, horrible bastard.
  3. From a family of criminals, he committed himself to the dynastic trade. He was to be under my supervision until his trial. For crimes.
  4. (He could talk, by the way. He spoke like an East London cockney wide boy gangster)
  5. We immediately disliked one another.
  6. He'd regularly piss himself whilst staring at me, knowing I'd have to deal with it. He had a sweaty back and knew it irked me.
  7. I decided to ease relations by taking him to a Victorian music hall pantomime, all greasepaint and limelight. It was superb. We both had an excellent time.
  8. "Fakkin 'ell, Tommy, that pantomime was fakkin triffic."
  9. We immediately loved one another.
  10. Our bond was forged and we became inseparable. He'd sometimes cry and I'd cradle him in my arms, this tiny cockney gangster baby, and coo and cluck him to sleep.
  11. Then came the day. The day we dreaded.
  12. He was to leave my care. There would be a handoff that afternoon. We were devastated.
  13. We took the tube to the handoff spot, on Westminster Bridge. Police had cordoned off the area; blue lights flashing, truncheons and guns at the ready, all eyes on us.
  14. I walked my tiny cockney gangster baby past a line of police cars, onto the empty bridge. Fifty yards ahead of us, another line of police cars, and the end of our time together.
  15. I looked at him.
  16. He looked at me, his tiny cockney gangster baby lip quivering.
  17. Suddenly the dream was no longer from my point of view. I was looking at us both from behind. The music reached a heartbreaking crescendo as the perspective craned around us, high above, and swooped down to our faces.
  18. I was celebrity chef Marco Pierre White.
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