fork?” “There are no prices on this menu,” he had murmured as they stood outside. “I don’t like all that MSG, myself,” her mother had said. “It’s not clean.” When they turned a corner onto Leicester Square, her father’s face had lit up. “Now there’s somewhere we all know,” he said, pointing to a Pizza Hut. “Oh no, Dad,” Piglet had said, grimacing. “Too good for pizza now, are you?” he said, his chest thrown forward, square in his raincoat.
Painfully Real
