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364 pages, Kindle Edition
First published October 30, 2017
This was Titch’s only fault, the belief he could have anything he wished. This is how birds fly into window glass, how women fall pregnant.
Dwarfed behind the wheel, Mrs Bobbsey was coughing and spitting and we had four hundred miles to Mount Isa, creek crossings and – worse than that – certain competitors who had disconnected their brakelights to cause accidents behind. No competitor on that leg will forget the dust coating every surface, the drumming violent gibber stones like a malevolent spirit with a sledgehammer clouting the bottom of your car.
The smell of a rally car, the stink, the whiff, the woo, you will never find the recipe for this pong in the Women’s Weekly but ingredients include petrol, rubber, pollen, dust, orange peel, wrecked banana, armpit, socks, man’s body. I drove into the night on the ratshit regulator. My headlights waxed and waned depending on the engine revs. Beneath us was bulldust, two feet thick.
‘Proper film star’ Doctor Battery said, approximately. Actually he said something like ‘him, proper film star’ or ‘‘im proper film star” but I will spare you my own confusion
He dream for you (‘’E dream for you’ to be precise.)
My father may have been, a many have suggested, a meddlesome well-meaning amateur anthropologist, but he was also a well-educated, deeply read man, an intellectual whose soul had been seriously contorted as a result of his country’s practice of ethnic cleansing
What may seem to be the signs of madness might be understood by someone familiar with alchemical literature as an encryption whose function is to insist that our mother country is a foreign land whose language we have not yet earned the right to speak