A nippy wind flicked my hair against my cheeks and made my batty-woman coat flap against my legs. There were no leaves left on the trees, but tattered shreds of plastic bags fluttered from the branches like pennants, and bits of wind-driven litter skittered along the street in front of me. As I turned the corner, I saw a massive four-by-four, black with darkened windows, tractor-sized tyres, and doubtless a global-warming-sized engine, parked at the bottom of the lane. It looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it. I quickened my step. Violetta was waiting for me in the porch, her fur fluffed out against the cold. I rang the bell. There was a long silence, then footsteps, then Mrs Shapiro appeared at the door. She was wearing full make-up and a rather stylish striped jersey, with brown slacks, and a different pair of high-heeled shoes—these were snakeskin, with peep-toes and slingbacks, a couple of sizes too large. Her left wrist was still strapped, and in the other hand she was holding a cigarette.
What do You think about 2009 - We Are All Made Of Glue?
