No lights were on. He’d rushed up East Hill like a bat out of hell, checking his watch every second or so, worried in case she was fretting, fearful, waiting for him – the meeting had gone on so late. To make matters worse he’d stopped off at the flower shop on Watling Street and the old woman ha...
When the sun hits its coat it could even be a golden retriever puppy. Mr Stinks is wagging his tail and sniffing him all over like he’s thinking, yippee, fox shit to roll in soon. “There’s another,” breathes Dove, and sure enough a second fox limps out from behind a tree t...