tarted. I suppose it ime in March.

    I’d driven ter to do an assessment of an ironmonger’s s o intervie, but at t moment aken frigo doubt ty good at talking people round. It’s being fat t does it. It puts people in a c signing a c a pleasure. Of course t ackling different people. it’s better to lay all tress on tle s about hey die uninsured.

    tctle  a day! You kno generally comes some time in Marcer suddenly seems to give up fig  people call ‘brig razor-blade. t a c a leaf stirring, a touc in tance ed sloed into t. I’d got to myself. It  aken your clothes off.

    I got to a spot y yards fartopped. too good to miss. I felt I’d got to get out and  tion of picking a bunco take o hilda.

    I sc out. I never like leaving tral, I’m al and look at t reminds you of trian Empire, all tied togets of string but some believe any mace in so many directions at once. It’s like tion of ty-t kinds of  ral it’s for all tche hula-hula.

    te beside trolled over and leaned across it. Not a soul in sigc back a bit to get t my fore inside te a tramp or somebody  ttle pile of ill oozing out of ttle bit of a pool, covered over er  sloped up stle beec of young leaves on trees. And utter stillness everyir t a sound, not even an aeroplane.

    I stayed t, leaning over te. I e alone. I  t me. I felt—I wonder wand.

    I felt ’s so unusual no to say it sounds like foolis  t t live for ever, I’d be quite ready to. If you like you can say t t   day of spring. Seasonal effect on t to it t. Curiously enoug  life  bit of fire near te. You knoill day. ticks t o icks, and under t you can see into. It’s curious t a red ember looks more alive, gives you more of a feeling of life t it, a kind of intensity, a vibration—I can’t t  it lets you kno you’re alive yourself. It’s t on ture t makes you notice everything else.

    I bent doo pick a primrose. Couldn’t reac—too mucted dole bunco see me. ts’ ears. I stood up and put my buncepost. teet of my mout them.

    If I’d  tter of fact, I kne man of forty-five, in a grey  a bit t. ife, ten all over me. Red face and boiled blue eyes. I kno o tell me. But t struck me, as I gave my dental plate t back into my mout It DOESN’t MAttER. Even false teet matter. I’m fat—yes. I look like a bookie’s unsuccessful broto bed o. I kno. But I tell you I don’t care. I don’t  t even  to be young again. I only  to be alive. And I  moment  t’s a feeling inside you, a kind of peaceful feeling, and yet it’s like a flame.

    Fart t if you didn’t knoep on it. I  ead of time on, just  t pool, for instance—all tuff t’s in it. Neer- snails, er-beetles, caddis-flies, leec you can only see ery of ter. You could spend a lifetime cen lifetimes, and still you   to t one pool. And all t of feeling of ’s t  it.

    But I do  it. At least I t so at t moment. And don’t mistake o begin  Cockneys, I’m not soppy about ‘try’. I oo near to it for t. I don’t  to stop people living in to matter. Let ‘em live ing t ty could spend tly   to ’s only because c in mines and girls are  typeers t anyone ever ime to pick a flo to pick flo t’s not t.  I get inside me—not often, I admit, but no’s a good feeling to ’s more, so does everybody else, or nearly everybody. It’s just round time, and ’s top firing t macop cever you’re c your breat a bit of peace seep into your bones. No use. e don’t do it. Just keep on he same bloody fooleries.

    And t raigo it. treamlined bullets streaming from t t t icularly. I’m too old to fig t  everybody. Besides, even if t kind of danger exists, it doesn’t really enter into one’s ts beforeimes already, I’m not friger- isn’t likely to affect me personally. Because  to be a political suspect. No one  it frigioner plugs you from be matter it frigellectually a good deal dumber t o telling you about, t peace, if you like. But s. And it’s gone for ever if trunc hold of us.

    I picked up my bunc t  it  of my mind all time, after ty years during ten it. And just at t the road.

    It broug. I suddenly realized o ory at t ironmonger’s s  suddenly struck me  man in a bo look rig all. Fat men mustn’t pick primroses, at any rate in public. I just ime to c. It  ty.  me—you kno struck me t even no some I’d been doing. Better let ‘em t  out of  try road? Obvious! As t past I pretended to be doing up a fly-button.

    I cranked up tarter doesn’t  in. Curiously enoug ers full of to me.

    I’d go back to Lower Binfield!

    ? I t as I jammed o top gear.  I?  o stop me? And  of it before? A quiet  ted.

    Don’t imagine t I o LIVE in Lo planning to desert art life under a different name. t kind of t o stop me slipping doo Lower Binfield and .?

    I seemed to  all planned out in my mind already. It ill t in t secret pile of mine, and you can able  a fortnig or September. But if I made up some suitable story— relative dying of incurable disease, or somet to give me my e o myself before  s, no noise of traffic driving you silly—just a ening to tness?

    But o go back to Loo do here?

    I didn’t mean to do anyt  of t. I ed peace and quiet. Peace! e  once, in Loold you somet our old life t pretending it . I dare say it urnips, if you like. But turnips don’t live in terror of t lie a nig t slump and t self  ill be toroug-place. I ed to get back t for a  t soak into me. It  like one of tern sages retiring into a desert. And I siring into t during t fe’ll be like time in ancient Rome t old Porteous elling me about,  ting list for every cave.

    But it  t I ed to ced to get my nerve back before times begin. Because does anyone  t time coming? e don’t even kno’ll be, and yet ’s coming. Per t it’ll be someto to t face t kind of t t feeling inside you. t’s gone out of us in ty years since t’s a kind of vital juice t ed ail t. All to and fro! Everlasting scramble for a bit of casing din of buses, bombs, radios, telepo bits, empty places in our bones o be.

    I s door. t of going back to Loles ick t and fill t gulp before topuses. e’re all stifling at ttom of a dustbin, but I’d found to top. Back to Lo my foot on tor until to y miles an tling like a tin tray full of crockery, and under cover of tarted singing.

    Of course t t pulled me up a bit. I sloo about ty to t over.

    t muc  sooner or later. As to getting only a  off all rigell  ask too many questions about t, because s tting doay at ty came in   just clear off  notice. Best t, o tell  I  on some special job to Nottingol, or some otold  it t o hide.

    But of course s sooner or later. trust art off by pretending to believe it, and t quiet, obstinate  t I’d never been to Nottingol or onis. Sucill s all ts in your alibi, and t your foot in it by some careless remark, sarts on you. Suddenly comes out urday nig’s a lie! You’ve been off  tcoat. Look at t colour?’ And times it’s imes s about times s ter-effects are al a ro make out ’s all about. tely o tell

    s.

    But, , er. I s door again. I’d  bigger t. I  go in May. I’d go in tarted, and I’d go fishing!

    , after all? I ed peace, and fis idea of all came into my he road.

    I’d go and catc Binfield house!

    And once again,  it queer  t to do are t can’t be done?  I catc, as soon as tioned, doesn’t it sound to you like somet just couldn’t  seemed so to me, even at t moment. It seemed to me a kind of dope-dream, like tars or  c it  in t impossible, it  even improbable. Fised.  t enoug. And Goso pay five pounds for a day’s fis pool. For t matter it e likely t till empty and nobody even kne ted.

    I t of it in trees, ing for me all till gliding round it. Jesus! If t size ty years ago, hey be like now?