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other day. Maybe tomorrow.’
    William stared hard across the breakfast table. Between him and Spencer there was a teapot,
The Times
, and an empty plate covered in a clear film of butter from William’s kipper. William took a sip of tea from his mug -
Celebrating 100 Years of the Liverpool Victoria Friendly Society -
thinking that Spencer looked unusually haggard this morning, as if he hadn’t slept very well. He was unshaven and his dark hair was unruly, although this was nothing new. He also had on his double-breasted suit, flapping open over a brownish shirt, which meant that at some stage today there were people coming to look at the house. For prospective buyers Spencer always made the concession of a suit, but never a tie, and this always annoyed William.
    â€˜I want to go out,’ William said.
    'Tomorrow.’
    'Today.’
    Spencer’s mug said
Mal Pelo - The Southern Dogs Tour
, but his tea had gone cold while he watched William’s goldfish exploring his new home, a glass fruit bowl further down the table. Spencer was definitely acting strangely this morning, and he’d already upset William by pretending not to have known it was the last day of Britain.
    â€˜I must have missed the build-up,’ he said, enthralled by the slow circuits being made by the fish.
    This was just about possible, William conceded, because even
The Times
could only spare half a column on page six:
European Union horn in confusion
. As for the front page and the rest of the day’s news, it was so long since William had been outside that he didn’t know what to believe any more. According to the newspaper, outside was a choice between toddlers abducted by ten-year-old boys and Irish gunmen in large black hoods. Or it was a nation buoyant with pride because its Rugby League team could thump New Zealand into the back of beyond (twice in a row. Ha!). Fellini was dead and so was River Phoenix. Youth crime was up and it was National Library Week, but none of this greatly mattered to William unless he could see it for himself. He was determined to go outside, and Spencer was going to help him.
    â€˜It won’t make any difference,’ Spencer said, at last looking away from the fruit bowl. He balanced a knife across his finger and told William that Britain was unlikely to have changed since yesterday. We could still be consoled by Buckingham Palace and teenage vandalism and Thomas More (Saint). We still had Norwich and disaffected Celts and the Princess Royal as Upper Warden of the Honourable Woolmen’s Company.
    â€˜Don’t be silly,’ William said, wondering what could possibly be wrong with him.
    â€˜We still have fox hunting and the National Trust and a criminal stock exchange, and there’s usually a Test match to be lost in your sport of choice to Australia. The NHS is never far away, slow but free, trundling up and down the Ml. Policemen in tall hats care deeply about radio licences for drag offenders, so there’s no need to worry, William. It all carries on, just the same as always.’
    'I want to see it for myself.’
    â€˜There’s nothing to be seen,’ Spencer said. ‘Nothing ever changes. Overnight nothing changes at all.’
    'It might be different this time.’
    â€˜And I’m a walrus.’
    â€˜And anyway,’ William said, ‘don’t you have to do what I say?’
    â€˜Not always, no.’
    'I think you do.’
    â€˜Not today, William.’
    â€˜Today and every day. You have to do what I say. Those are the rales.’
    With the end of his knife Spencer drew a stick-man in the film of butter setting on William’s plate. This rebellion was very unlike him, William thought, unless he’d secretly been given one of the acting jobs he always said he wanted, was imminently about to be flown to LA, and therefore expected to fall in love with a dippy actress who’d provide him with a home of his own to go to.