“He lay in bed till nine. Then he got up, bathed, and began on the task to which he intended to devote this free day, painting the outside of his bungalow. A great wind, offshoot of a Caribbean hurricane the Americans called Caroline, had arisen during the night. Burden needed to use no ladders; the eaves of his bungalow were too near the ground for that, but today he didn’t even fancy ascending the steps. Certainly he wasn’t going to allow his eleven-year-old son John, home for the school holid...ays and an enthusiastic helper, to go up them. ‘You can do the front door, John,’ he said, knowing that he was conferring a special favour. All painters, particularly amateurs, long for the moment when the top coat, an excitingly contrasting colour, is due to be applied to the front door. ‘Blimey, can I?’ said John. ‘Don’t say blimey. It means God blind me, and you know I don’t like to hear you swear.’ John, who normally would have argued the point, trotted off to fetch from the garage a virgin pot of flamingo-pink paint.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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