It Always Rains on Sundays Read Online Free PDF Page A

enough. She shook her head ‘This is the trouble, he’s rather deaf I’m afraid’ she told me sadly. I nodded, you just never know do you, he can’t help being deaf. I was starting to thing Max was a bit stupid, whenever you called him, all he does is cock his head and look at you blank.
    Time to go. I gave Max one final pat. She smiled (she looked different again without those stupid round glasses). We said our goodbyes. Walking home through the park, I tried to think up an idea for a poem – try as I might, there’s not that much you can put in a poem all about a deaf dog – you are a bit limited after all.
    There again you can’t expect to find ‘nuggets of purest gold’ out of everything.
Tuesday 21st July.
Writers Block (Tip of the month).
 
Sooner or later, as night follows day .
 
Don’t fall in the trap, of using clichés .
DeLacey Street.
 (Post-nil).
    8:00pm. (CONSERVATORY). HOT DAY, nice and sunny. MONDEO RETURNED – mint con (well hopefully at least). Good news, bad news in a way – only now for some inexplicable reason she seems to have developed this rather persistent squeak. You tell me – it’s a real pain to say the least. Meantime, just in case I’ve been trying to contact Fat Frank over at Fox’s Garage – no joy I’m afraid. He’s away, his brother Lolly picked up the phone, ‘It’s about my squeak’ I said, according to him Frank won’t be back for a whole week at least, he’s in Birmingham (since when did car mechanics hold seven day conferences). Sure – pull the other one I thought. Finally I phoned up his house – his wife’s really nice. We’ve spoke quite a few times. Rightaway she completely agreed, squeaks can be a real nuisance sometimes. No problem, even when she’d to get out of the bath-tub to answer the phone – she’s as sweet as pie. She promised me faithfully, she’d tell him the minute he gets back. Meantime I’ve been cadging a lift with Dec Tasker the caretaker in his cronky ex-post office van. Talk about boring, next time I’ll walk. All he ever talks about is his rotten fish-tank – fish with names? (I don’t know which is worse?) Frankly I’d rather listen to my squeak.
    Mind you if I’m truthful I’ve been bored all day. Whybe surprised, what else can you expect working in a Library all day. It isn’t as if there’s anything to look forward to coming home either. I’ve been looking for my post. What a bitch – I’ve just found Gypsy Jack, it was stuffed behind a radiator out in the hallway. Cynthia, who else? I don’t know what made me look, I fished it out with a coat-hanger (I’ll swing for that woman one of these days).
    Three months that’s been off – or so I thought. I wouldn’t mind I was counting on that bastard for this year’s Shakespeare Literacy Festival down in the West Country.
    This is the trouble, at onetime poets were v.highly regarded. Not like now – they look at you as if you’re some kind of oddball. Sir Walker Scott, people of that ilk, he’d have a turret in some old castle to retreat to for some peace and quiet you can bet. Not like yours truly, coming home to an empty table. Mind you, not that poets requirements are much, their frugality is legendary, a crust of bread – the odd flagon of wine maybe.
    Luckily for me I’ve already eaten at the pub on my way home.
    Cynthia’s lucky, in days of yore they’d’ve burnt her at the stake more than likely – no wonder the nunneries were choc a bloc.
    9:00pm. God, I really love this house – another glorious evening, the dipping sun flooding the whole garden in golden light … I’ve been giving the lawn a quick once-over with the mower (the smell of cut grass, it’s intoxicating!) There’s a unique greenness about Englishgrass I always think. All