There are certain conversations we can’t have with Russel Storey. They are still too raw, the wound fresh, the memories burrowed deep you could raise an eyebrow and he would fill in the blanks on autocomplete.
Life, when you think about it, is just an accumulation of scars. So, we salve his heart by embalming his feelings and talking about everything else: his suitcases. Arsenal. His ballerina mother. His sporty father.
