Matriarch

 He peered out of the grimy glass at the rain which had now settled to a diagonal drizzle. The box was situated at the top edge of a long rectangular concrete esplanade, shops lining one side, houses across the road opposite. This was the street of his youth; the phone box he and his feral mates habitually vandalised, the Co- op opposite where teenage shoplifting was a rite of passage, the hairdressers where his crew and, later, feather cuts emerged ( the remains of which he still sported), the chip shop of a thousand rock, n chips (he never liked cod) and the venue of his first fight (with the owners Maltese son), the launderette where he  had his first sexual fumblings (the eldest daughter of a Wapping overspill family in the house opposite), the pub where his tired shift working parents drowned there disappointed sorrows.
Unlike some of his peers he had never quite managed to break away from Welwyn Garden City, a town itself of grand dreams now mired in mediocre compromise. Infected by the towns air of inertia and disappointment he seemed doomed to never reach the potential his kindness and intelligence deserved. This fling with Tracy was typical of the kind of liaison he ended up in. No future, an exhilarating but dangerous and futile dalliance. His relationships always seemed to founder despite the efforts of a string of strangely loyal partners who generally couldn’t quite bring themselves to hate him despite his infuriating lack of drive or commitment. Like his relationships his career lacked focus and taxi driving as a funder for his dissolute lifestyle suited him, providing money but no ties or need for effort or ambition. Little legs was an affable underachiever, a lovable but infuriating character who you accepted would probably ultimately let you and himself down. He was though, ripe for exploitation, and his chief pimp was ‘The Otter’ a local hood and taxi firm owner who held over him some malign influence and control .