d a story of a c once— t’s to say, ion t ttom of t instead of tables and cer crabs and cuttlefis to get like t. For t my paces as I do and treet and slap t petrol pump is really an elm tree. And ments. And treet (it tle roaco go ie Simmons, and t-bus I got tances tions reets tle as ty years ago. It ryside ion from ter suburbs. Nearly t used to be old Bree. t my first fis over, so t I couldn’t even say exactly o stand. It le red cubes of pato t door. Beyond tate to a bit, but t. And ttle knots of o buy a plot of land, and t roads leading up to ty lots s of ruined fields covered les and tin cans.
In tre of to c. A lot of till doing trade, alt. Lillyill a draper’s, but it didn’t look too prosperous. used to be Gravitt’s, tc sold radio parts. Mottle ’s ill a grocer’s, but it aken over by ternational. It gives you an idea of t te old skinflint like Grimmett. But from o mention t slap-up tombstone in t out o fifteen to take to ill in to enormous dimensions, and t of to turned into a kind of general store and sold furniture, drugs, uff.
For t part of t actually groaning and rattling a c sometimes feeling t I’d like to. Also I as soon as I got to Loarted on ter t to open quite early enougongue ime.
Mind you, I in time. Sometimes it seemed to me t it didn’t matter a damn if Loed. After all, o get a do all ted to do, even go fis like it. On turday afternoon I even to tackle sreet and boug-cane rod (I’d al-cane rod as a boy—it’s a little bit dearer t) and and so fortmospever else cackle doesn’t— because, of course, fis c see anyt middle-aged man buying a fisrary, le talk about t on a paste made of bro tell I ed tted it to myself—bougrongest salmon trace , and some No. 5 roaco t Binfield ill existed.
Most of Sunday morning I ing it in my mind—s I? One moment I’d t, and t moment it o me t it one of t you dream about and don’t ever do. But in ternoon I got t and drove doo Burford eir. I t I’d just tomorro, maybe I’d take my ne an