There were no biggers at home when a low-loader deposited a silver caravan on the driveway. The delivery men wound down legs, shoved a fat envelope through the letterbox, and buggered off.
It was a hot day, and the sun on the polished sides was blinding. Numpty made to move closer, but Hamish grabbed his collar.
“Bliddy thing’s moving. Come awa.”
Indeed it was moving, two of the four legs were slowly sinking into the tarmac and the thing was leaning at a crazy angle.
As one gnome they ran, before the biggers’ thing could suck them down too.
An everyday story of concrete folk: Thirteen
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