“Tim ventured down to their front door in the vain hope that his Domain of the Undead entry had got in with their letters, because the postman couldn’t be bothered to climb the wooden steps. Brian, in his tweed breeches with little straps and buckles below the knee, and thick socks like red drainpipes, opened the door briskly. ‘No, sorry, old lad, nothing.’ His beard was mixed up with the neck of his rugged sweater. ‘Going to the Cotswolds,’ he said stoutly, as if it were Kathmandu. ‘Want to com...e with us?’ ‘On no – no thanks.’ He must have asked only because he thought Tim would say no. ‘Got something better to do?’ Brian’s eyes were like pale wet pebbles. His eyebrows, which grew upwards instead of sideways, were made of the same thick, soft hair as his beard. ‘Another time, then.’ ‘Thanks. I mean, thanks.’ Tim would never be able to keep up with them. Even in the doorway in his socks, Brian already exuded fresh air and racing clouds and great waxed boots that were in charge of feet rather than worn by them.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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