Alex is a little boy who lives on our road. He's 11. I know this because I asked him during one of our long Q&A sessions about my cats. "What are their names?" is his usual refrain; I swear by now he must have asked me five times. He once asked what my name was. When I told him, he said Rosemary was a lovely name, but he must have been confused because now he calls me Rosalee. He likes Calvin better, as most people do once they get past Dexter's coffee-dipped mouth. "He's so fluffy!" exclaimed Alex one sunny Sunday, holding Calvin in what looked like a very uncomfortable manner, but mustn't have been, such was the volume of his incessant purring.
Alex has very thick, very tall ginger hair. I suspect he is a not-so-secret Jedward fan. Combine that with his blatant homosexuality and I think he may have a very difficult time once he gets to big school. Regan, my ginger gay housemate, disagrees. He suspects that Alex - who, in a beautiful stroke of irony, he refers to as "the ginger gay" - will be adopted by a scrappy group of "young wans, who'll do his hair and kick the shit out of anyone who bullies him". I hope he's right.