Big washed and hoovered his big car, took his goff sticks and his waders out of the boot and drove off.
“Where going?” Wee Willie wondered.
Brenda uttered a sarcastic huff of breath.
“He’s off to get his Chelsea Tractor.”
Numpty grinned. “I likes tractors.”
Mother Bigger must have had a premonition, because she sat on the patio inhaling gin as if it was going out of fashion.
The sound of a set of vulgar air horns announced Big’s arrival. Big and the biggest purple muscle truck you have ever seen.
Mother sighed and collapsed gently into the herbaceous border.
An everyday story of concrete folk: Ten
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